Four Days
by dysprositos
Summary: Clint "Hawkeye" Barton hadn't slept in four days. That was fine—that was exactly how he wanted it. But then a few bad choices became more than he could deal with. Before he could get a handle on that, life threw some more crap at him: Russians, and mysterious chemicals, and kidnapped physicists. Clint wasn't feeling up to it, but he decided he was going to save the world anyway.
1. Four Days

Warning: language, drug use.

Edited to fix formatting errors that resulted from posting at 3:00 in the morning.

I don't own the Avengers.

* * *

Clint "Hawkeye" Barton had not slept in just over four days.

It wasn't the longest he'd gone without sleep. In fact, it was about average. Four or five days of being awake, followed by a night of "sleep", rinse and repeat ad infinitum.

His insomnia had started shortly after the Chitauri invasion. He had found himself lying awake at night, restless, heart pounding in his chest against an ever-tightening band of anxiety that crushed his ribs and made it nearly impossible to draw breath.

At first, he was confused—_What the fuck is happening to me?_—but it didn't take him long to figure out what was going on. After all, panic attacks weren't exactly a rare phenomenon.

That sleep—or the _idea _of sleep, even—could cause such a reaction was troubling, but also not too difficult to explain.

His mind had been invaded, his body used against his will. As little more than a puppet, and with no control over his actions, he had attacked those he had sworn to protect. He had aided a megalomaniacal demigod who sought the subjugation of all mankind, and in so doing he had been instrumental in the deaths of many, many good men.

Phil Coulson had been a good man.

And thus was born the stalwart refusal to surrender control of his body, even to his own subconscious.

It was irrational. He knew that. But that knowledge didn't stop his hands from trembling as he layed in bed at night, didn't stop his panicked gasps for air.

The clear solution, he figured, was to just never sleep again. A quick internet search revealed that this was not going to be a successful tactic—the longest anyone had been recorded to go without sleep was eleven days. And going longer than two or three days was directly correlated with massive decreases in cognitive function.

He was an assassin, first and foremost, and he kind of figured he needed his ability to concentrate.

So he was going to need a better plan.

When you kill people for a living, you meet all kinds of unsavory types. It wasn't hard to find someone who could provide him with what he needed. With some experimentation, Clint found a way to sleep as little as possible while maintaining a level of alertness that allowed him to perform his job to the exacting standards required of him.

There were some hiccups.

For example, he didn't sleep for the first week. That had been the goal, of course, but after three days of no sleep, he had become irritable and easily frustrated. By the fifth day, that had evolved into outright aggression. On day seven, he spent four hours in the dead of the night, in SHIELD's physical training facility, screaming incoherent accusations at inanimate objects and beating on anything that would stay still and let him.

He learned an important lesson. He went to his supplier the next day, nursing his bruised fists and a headache the approximate size of Mt. Everest, and made a request. The man had made a joke about a two-for-one special he gave all the speed freaks, and had handed him the diazepam with a knowing smirk.

Clint hated him.

After that, he made it a point to try and sleep at least every four days. With the Valium, at least, he could make it through the night without throwing up, although he wondered how restful his drug-induced sleep was. It didn't matter, though, really. It was enough.

It was, unsurprisingly, Natasha who noticed that something was wrong.

"You've lost weight, Barton," she'd said one day, after they'd finished sparring. He looked down, and noticed the way his previously-tight uniform hung loosely from his shoulders.

With a shrug and a laugh, he'd replied, "You know I have to watch my figure, 'Tasha. Carbohydrates go straight to my hips."

She'd smiled, and they'd changed topics, but she hadn't stopped thinking about it. He might joke about carbohydrates, but the fact was that Clint couldn't really spare the ten or so pounds he had lost. Something about the situation was nudging against her intuition, and she always trusted her gut. She resolved to keep an eye on him.

It only took a day and a half after that for her to learn Clint's secret. Once vigilant in ensuring that no one find out what he was doing, he had become increasingly sloppy. Indifferent, even.

She watched him in the locker room, barely making an effort to conceal herself, as he rifled around in his bag at the end of the day. His actions became more and more agitated, until his hand closed around something. When he pulled it out of the bag, she saw that it was a pill bottle. He uncapped it, shook out a few tablets, and popped them into his mouth. He took a swig of water from a bottle, and tossed the pills back into his bag. Leaving it lying open on the bench, he headed into the men's room.

Natasha took that as her opening. Looking to make sure no one was watching _her_, she slipped over to where Clint had left his bag, grabbed the pill bottle, opened it, and took one. She pocketed it and left.

When she asked Dr. Banner if he could identify what the pill contained, she could tell he was confused. Sure, it was within his capabilities to do such an analysis, but SHIELD had a whole department of chemists who would have been more than happy to help. Still, he agreed to do it. He liked Natasha, and something about the way she had asked had seemed...desperate.

She got a text message from him the next day at work that simply said, "Dextroamphetamine, amphetamine." Her heart sank.

Natasha was not one to waste time. She considered texting Clint to ask where he was, but decided to maintain the element of surprise. Instead, then, she triangulated his cell phone signal. She was unsurprised to find that he was on the roof.

She _was _surprised to find that he was doing paperwork. "You know, Barton, we have these things called 'offices,' where there are 'desks,' on which we can write."

He shrugged. He was sitting with his back to her, shoulders hunched.

"Clint," she said, all traces of humor gone from her voice.

He turned to look at her.

"Why are you taking amphetamines?"

That was unexpected. Although, he thought, it really shouldn't be. 'Tasha had always been whip-smart. If someone was going to figure it out, it'd be her.

He knew that she would know if he lied to her. And they had too much history together, and too much respect for each other, for him to even try it. So instead he said, "I can't sleep."

"No _shit_, dumbass. Dextroamphetamine and amphetamine are stimulants."

"No, I mean...I can't sleep. I _can't_."

It clicked for her. "You're afraid to go to sleep. Because of...what happened with Loki. Right?"

He nodded. She felt a rush of something—pity, maybe, or sympathy, or something else soft— that she crushed and compressed into anger. Now was not the time for gentleness.

"And this was your brilliant idea? Abuse stimulants so you never had to go to sleep again?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Romanoff, I sleep. Sometimes. If I—" he cut himself off.

Natasha had, in her line of work, accrued a decent amount of information about drugs and addicts. She knew there was a pattern that a lot of stimulant abusers followed. "Please tell me you're not taking benzos too, Clint."

He averted his eyes in lieu of an answer.

"Christ, Barton!" Natasha exploded. "Are you insane? Do you know how dangerous that is?"

It wasn't something he'd considered too closely.

After a moment, she said quietly, "You're an _idiot_." Then she was walking away from him, no, stalking away, hurt and anger and disappointment stiffening her posture into something feral.

Clint Barton had not slept in just over four days. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his bottle of pills.

Why not make it five?


	2. Gas on the Fire

So, I'm really new to writing. And I can never tell when my stories or going to be one-shots. I can barely settle on genres or ratings. In fact, I can't even select the language that this is written in with any level of confidence, though I suspect it might be English.

The point of this is, I don't know where this is going.

That said, enjoy.

Warnings: language, drug use, some blood.

I do not own the Avengers.

* * *

She got the call two days later.

It's been two days of vacillating between being angry at Clint and being angry at herself for walking away. That's not how she usually does things. Usually, she can stand strong. Usually, she can do whatever needs to be done, with no hesitation.

The problem, she thought, was that, for once, she hadn't actually known what needed to be done.

It was 12:30 in the morning when her phone rang, and Natasha was annoyed. She'd been planning on making it an early night for once, maybe having a bath and, if she was lucky, getting something approaching a normal amount of sleep. It was with an irritated snarl, then, that she ripped her phone from her pocket, and answered it with a growled, "This is Romanoff."

"Geez, someone's touchy."

Tony Stark. Wonderful.

"What do you want, Stark?"

He didn't immediately reply.

"Stark?"

He paused a moment longer. When he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically sober. "I think you need to get here. There's something wrong with Barton."

She recalled that Clint was working with Stark to develop some new, lightweight, flexible body armor. Specifically, something that he could wear in cold temperatures—that had _sleeves_, but didn't restrict his movement or get in the way of his bowstring. Stark had, finally, come up with a few prototypes earlier in the week and had invited Clint to his labs to try them out. She figured Clint must have decided that today was the day to stop by.

All of that was secondary, though. "What do you mean, 'there's something wrong with Barton?'" she snapped

.

"...Just get here. Soon. Like, now." The enormous hesitation with which Tony was speaking unnerved her. He was never one to be so reserved.

With all warm, comfortable thoughts of baths and beds driven from her mind, she strode purposefully to her car.

Stark Tower was mostly dark at this hour, with only a few lights visible on the upper floors. _Tony's labs, and the Avenger's quarters_, Natasha thought. She knew that Rogers and Banner lived there full time. Her and Clint stayed there often enough to have their own rooms. She swiped her access card at the door, and made her way to the elevator. She pulled out her phone to call Stark and get his location.

"Mr. Stark is on the seventy-sixth floor, Agent Romanoff," JARVIS said out of the darkness, scaring her half to death. Though she didn't let it show.

She pressed button for the correct floor with more force than was strictly necessary.

Tony, as it turned out, was pacing back and forth in front of the elevator. When she stepped off, he turned to face her, and it was only through years of practice at controlling her emotions that she was able to keep her expression carefully neutral.

Stark's right eye was swollen closed, rapidly turning dark shades of purple and red. His lip had been split, and although the bleeding had stopped, a smear of blood across his face traced the path his hand had taken when he'd wiped his mouth.

Someone had taken a few good swings at him, and she had a sinking feeling that she knew who.

"Ah, Natasha, you look radiant tonight," he greeted her. "Really, you do. I hope I didn't pull you away from anything. Like a date. Or...killing someone. Same difference, really. Would you like a drink? I was going to have one. Or two. Maybe—"

"Can it, Stark," she interrupted him. "What the fuck happened to your face?"

He smirked, as much as having half of his face swollen to twice its normal size would allow. "Yeah, about that. You need to talk to your boyfriend."

She let the "boyfriend" bit slide. "Where is he?"

"Lab three. It'll be the first one on your right when you go down that hall. JARVIS, please allow Ms. Romanoff to enter lab three at her discretion."

"Certainly, sir," the AI replied.

Natasha wasn't sure what she was going to find in lab three, but the state of Tony's face had her worried. She walked down the hall, her mind conjuring an expansive array of worst-case scenarios.

At first glance, though, it didn't seem to be so bad. Through the glass walls of the lab, she could see that Clint was sitting on a stool, head slightly bowed, hands grasping the seat tightly on either side of him. He was shirtless, though what she assumed was Stark's prototype armor was on the table next to him. As she got closer, she could see that one of his feet was tapping an irregular, frenetic rhythm against the legs of the stool. He was using the other foot to spin the chair around in half circles, first one way, then the other. Back and forth, incessant, nervous movement.

Bracing herself, she stepped through the sliding door.

The spinning and tapping stopped abruptly as she entered, but he did not raise his head, nor did he release his death-grip on the seat of the stool. Now that she was closer, she could see that he was thrumming with energy, his muscles tense, his face and chest beaded with sweat. He was grinding his teeth together, his jaw clenched tightly, and his cheeks were flushed. The area around him was littered with shattered glass and some liquid that she _really _hoped was just water. Bits and pieces of what might have once been a robot were visible a bit further into the lab. Here and there, bright red drops of blood spackled the floor.

Natasha initially thought that the blood had come from Stark's face, but then she saw that it was actually coming from jagged cuts on Clint's knuckles.

"Barton," she said, cautiously.

His head snapped up and he focused on her with bloodshot eyes, pupils so dilated that they were circled by only a thin ring of blue.

Christ, this was a mess. She didn't know what she was doing. She _did _know that Stark was undoubtedly watching them through his extensive surveillance system, though, and that made it even harder to act.

But then, _to hell with it_, she thought, almost savagely. _Stark already knows something's up, he's not stupid. And if Barton didn't want the whole world knowing he was a _ drug addict_, he shouldn't have become one in the first place._

To Clint, she said, "How much did you take?"

He gave a short bark of laughter, and began drumming the fingers of one hand against his thigh. "Enough."

The cuts on his knuckles looked like they'd need stitches. "And when was the last time you slept?" she asked, determined to keep her cool. "Have you since the last time we...talked?"

He shook his head.

She pressed on. "So it's been two days? Three?"

He began spinning his chair back and forth again. "No. Six. Or seven. I don't know."

Natasha sighed. "Barton. Clint...you _need _to sleep."

Clint clenched his jaw and resumed grinding his teeth. Okay, she could leave that point for later.

"What happened in here?" she asked, gesturing at the mess.

In an explosion of movement, Clint leapt off his stool and began pacing, glass crunching under his boots. "Stark. He's a fucking idiot."

Well, everyone knew that. But not everyone took it upon themselves to introduce Tony to their fists.

Natasha said, "So you decided to punch him in the face? At least twice?"

Clint laughed. It was a manic, strained sound. "It was only twice. Not for lack of trying, though." He sat back down, gave his chair a half-spin, and stood again. He swayed as a wave of dizziness crashed over him. When it passed, he found he was sitting again. So he stood. And paced.

Natasha was becoming fatigued just watching him.

"Look," Clint said, after a couple of laps around the lab. "It's not my fault Stark doesn't know when the fuck to back off."

Somewhere in the building, Natasha imagined Stark was sputtering indignantly at that. "What did he do?" she asked.

"What did he _do_?" Clint spat. "He was all, 'Put this shirt on and stand over there so I can shoot you, Barton,' and I'm like, 'Okay, whatever.' But then this little fucking robot comes along and it's trying to, I don't know, pin me in place or some shit so I can't move, and I'm like, 'Tony, stop with the BDSM shit,' and he was _laughing _at me, 'Tasha, and I couldn't _move _so I broke that fucking robot and then I broke Stark's fucking face."

Natasha resolved to get Tony's side of the story at some point, but she had a decent idea of what had happened. As a safety precaution (she hadn't even known that Stark knew what those were—what was he thinking, testing his new armor on a _person_ first?), Tony probably had used one of his robots to immobilize Clint so that he didn't move and cause Tony to shoot him somewhere other than the new body armor. Clint hadn't taken being restrained well, and the drug running in his veins had acted like gasoline to the fire of his panic. He had exploded.

She surveyed the damage to the room and whistled. "Looks like you broke more than his face," she said. "How'd you hurt your hands?"

He glanced down at his hands, looking puzzled. Upon seeing the gashes, his expression morphed into one of surprise, and he laughed that awful laugh again. "Well, shit. Didn't even notice, 'Tasha."

She closed her eyes. Those cuts needed medical attention. But she didn't think that she could bring him to medical in this state. Drug use was grounds for dismissal from SHIELD, and he was already on shaky ground after the mind-control incident. While she knew that he carried no blame for what had happened, there were others (including Clint) who were not so forgiving.

Her musings were interrupted by JARVIS. "Agent Romanoff, Mr. Stark requires a word with you. And with Agent Barton, if he is amenable, and will refrain from further attacks on Mr. Stark's person and property."

Clint jumped up (when had he sat down? He couldn't remember doing that), eager to get out of this increasingly small space. However, as his feet touched the ground, the whole world tilted on him, and he found himself lying on the floor, amid the broken glass, staring at Natasha's shoes.

"Fuck, Barton," she hissed, crouching next to him and placing her fingers against his carotid artery. She could feel his pulse fluttering against her fingers, his heart beating far, far too fast.

The broken glass was digging into his arms, his back, becoming embedded in his skin and muscles, and then he was laughing, eyes closed and arms wrapped tightly around him. The glass cut deeply, but he was too far gone to care, flying too high, all awareness thrown out the window.

"If Mr. Stark wants a word," Natasha said, her voice calm and steady over Clint's terrible laughter, "He's going to have to come to us, I think."

* * *

Thanks to everyone who commented on this and added it to their favorites and story alerts.

Please leave a review, so I know how I'm doing!


	3. Not Funny

Warnings: language, drug use, some violence and blood.

I do not own the Avengers.

* * *

Natasha didn't know if JARVIS had conveyed her message to Tony, or if, watching what was happening via surveillance, he had decided to come of his own volition. Either way, a bit less than five minutes later, he was there.

"Christ, Romanoff, I could hear him laughing two floors up, what the fuck?" Tony said, striding into the room. His words were flippant, but that couldn't mask the shock in his voice or the pallor of his face. She knew then that he had seen everything.

He had, she saw, washed the blood off his face, but had not yet managed any kind of treatment for his injuries. At this point, though, she had to concede an ice pack would be mostly futile.

Clint had stopped laughing. He had, in fact, mostly stopped moving for the first time since Natasha had entered the lab. He was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling with glassy, unblinking eyes. His breathing was rapid, as if he had just run a great distance. His fingers tapped and scratched at floor, making a frenetic pattern in the broken glass and blood that surrounded him.

Natasha felt that he wasn't going anywhere right this minute.

"Did he bring a bag with him?" she asked Tony.

There was no reply.

"Stark?"

The man was staring at Clint, seemingly transfixed, watching as he ran his hands ran through the shards of glass, indifferent to or unaware of the way it was cutting his fingers.

"Stark! Tony!"

He jumped.

"Did he bring a bag with him?" she repeated. "Or a jacket?"

Tony nodded, pointing vaguely towards the other end of the lab. "Yeah, he left his stuff over there."

"Could you go grab it?" she prompted. He complied.

Natasha opened the main compartment of Clint's bag. Sitting right on top were two bottles.

_Jesus, Clint_, she thought. _You're not even _trying _anymore are you_?

She opened the first one. It contained the pills she'd seen him taking before. _Must be the other one, then_, she thought.

The other bottle contained different pills, these ones colored a soothing blue. She shook a few out, capped the bottle, and tossed both bottles back into Clint's bag.

She briefly considered confiscating them, but she didn't think he'd appreciate her taking that kind of control over him. In fact, she knew he'd resent the hell out of it. He needed to be free to make his own decisions, for the moment, even if they were terrible. And _stupid_. And _dangerous_.

Shaking her head, she said, "Give me a hand, Stark," and began maneuvering Clint into a sitting position.

If she'd thought that Clint would be any help at all in this endeavor, she was sadly mistaken. He had not lapsed into unconsciousness, but he was mostly unresponsive. His only contribution to the effort was to mumble a barely-intelligible, "Tasha, that tickles," followed by a weak giggle. Now that she was closer to him, she could feel excess heat radiating off of his body in waves, could feel how his heart was trying to burst out of his chest.

Once Tony figured out what she wanted, the pair managed to lean Clint up against the legs of one of the lab tables.

"Hold on to his shoulders," Natasha instructed Tony. "Make sure he doesn't fall over." To Clint, she said, "Open your mouth."

He stared at a point behind her, with a vaguely concerned look on his face.

"Barton!" she barked. "Open. Your. Mouth." This time he complied, and she tossed the pills in with one hand, using the other to close his mouth and hold it that way. He choked for a moment, then swallowed.

"What was that?" Tony asked.

"Honestly?" she said, with a shrug, "I'm not sure. Some benzodiazepine. Probably Valium or something like it."

"Valium," Clint said, roused momentarily from his stupor and struggling to focus on the pair crouched in front of him. "It's...Valium. I think."

Natasha restrained herself from slapping him, though it was a struggle. "You don't _know_? You've been taking it, and you don't KNOW?"

"No..." he breathed, closing his eyes against a sudden wave of nausea. He snapped them open again a moment later, the manic energy from a few minutes ago replaced with blind panic. "Tasha—don't—I can't—"

He rolled onto his side. Worried that he was going to vomit and undo all her hard work, Natasha heaved him back upright. "Clint! Calm down! It's going to be all right."

"I have some...pretty serious doubts," he replied, with a short, derisive laugh.

"You trust me, Clint. Right? You can trust me now. Just relax." She took a breath and continued, the words awkward and unnatural, "I'll make sure nothing happens. I'll be right next to you. I'll...take care of you." She settled in next to him, careful to avoid the broken glass. Tony followed her example, taking Clint's other side.

For fifteen minutes, they sat that way. Clint's breathing began to slow and his eyes dropped closed. Natasha felt for his pulse, satisfied that it was slowing down to a more normal level. She pulled Clint towards her, so that he was leaning into her chest. After another ten minutes, she found she was supporting his weight alone.

"Okay," she said. "He's out."

Tony found that, for once in his life, he couldn't think of a thing to say.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" Natasha said.

He could do that.

* * *

Tony had been surprised as fuck when Barton had flipped out.

Sure, he'd been acting a little...off...all night. He'd arrived around ten o'clock, which was strange. Of course, Tony had told him to "stop by anytime," but he hadn't expected the marksman to take him quite so literally.

Barton hadn't told him he was going to come by, so Tony wasn't quite ready for product testing. He told Barton to take a seat and started running the calculations he needed to do before he felt he could safely proceed with phase one of testing. Which involved guns.

Barton hadn't sat down, though. Well, he had for a moment. Then he'd been up, pacing, asking a seemingly unending barrage of questions about the new armor, the lab, Tony, everything. His words were fast, his thoughts apparently rushing from one topic to another with little apparent connection.

_He needs to lay off the coffee_, Tony thought, dismissing the worry gnawing in his gut.

Tony's calculations had taken a bit longer than he'd anticipated. It was a bit over two hours after Barton's arrival that Tony was finally ready to proceed. It didn't help that Tony was being continually distracted by Clint's questions, his pacing, his nervousness. Being in the same room with him was physically exhausting.

"Barton, come here," Tony said, when he was finished. He peered around the lab and tried to figure out where the assassin had gone.

"What?" Clint said, from directly behind him. Tony managed to refrain from dying of a heart attack. Barely.

"Put this on." He handed Clint his most promising prototype. "It's lightweight, flexible, bullet proof, resistant to knives and a whole lot of other shit. Including, incidentally, shit."

"Why's it purple?" Clint asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Honestly, Barton? 'Cause I thought it was funny. Now put it on so I can shoot you."

"You said it was bulletproof. Why are you testing if it's bulletproof? You're not shooting me if it's not bulletproof."

"Look, I know it's bulletproof. I did the math. I just want to see how bullets, uh, impact it. Now be a doll and go stand over there."

Glaring at Tony, Clint pulled off his shirt and replaced it with the new one. The material felt really weird on his skin, like some kind of oily spandex, and he hated it. He scratched at his arm, his chest, his other arm. God, this thing was awful.

Tony walked to one of the many consoles in the lab and punched a few keys. "Could you stick your arms out?" he called to Clint. "Like an airplane?"

Clint rolled his eyes, but complied. He hoped no one ever saw the video footage of this. Impatient, he bounced on the balls of his feet, very nearly jumping in place.

Tony took note of his movement. He tapped a few more commands, and Clint watched a robot wheel out of somewhere. It disappeared behind him, and a second later, he felt something fasten around his wrists and ankles. He tugged against the bonds, and found he couldn't move.

Oh, God. He could feel his heart rate picking up.

"Stark. What the fuck?" he choked out.

Tony was oblivious to the assassin's discomfort, too buried in his work to notice something as unimportant as body language.

"STARK!" Clint yelled, and Tony looked up. "Let me go. Now. I'm not...I can't..." his chest was practically seizing up on him.

Tony said, "But we haven't done any testing."

Clint struggled to take a deep breath, but couldn't. "Stark, stop this shit, okay, just let me go!"

"What, you don't like being tied up?" Tony said, with a laugh, somehow still unaware of the other man's distress.

That was the wrong thing to say.

Something flashed across Barton's face, but before Tony could process it, the other man had _twisted_ himself, snapping the hold the robot had on his legs. _Okay,_ Tony thought, _that robot was pretty sturdy. How damn strong _is _this guy_?

With his legs free, Clint, dangling from his wrists, snapped his legs backwards, kicking the robot as hard as he could with both feet. The panel on the front caved in under the blow, and with a shower of sparks, the robot died, releasing Clint's wrists. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and found his feet.

He stood for a moment, chest heaving, before prowling towards Tony.

_This isn't good_, Tony thought.

"Barton," he said, backing up, "Calm down." Clint didn't seem to hear him. Tony began backing up faster, until he felt the shelving he had placed on the far wall of the lab against his back. _Fuck_.

He managed to dodge the first punch, but the second followed so closely he didn't have a chance. Stars exploded in his vision as Barton's fist slammed into his eye.

Clint's third and fourth attempts missed, because Tony had gotten lucky and fallen over. Instead, the punches connected with the carefully organized and stacked Pyrex glassware on the fourth shelf. The glass cut deeply into Clint's fists, but he didn't notice, or didn't care.

Tony tried to scramble to his feet, but Barton's elbow caught him in the mouth. So he went down again.

He knew that, without his suit, he was no match for the assassin. He had no idea what the fuck had come over Barton, but it didn't show any signs of stopping soon.

Clint heaved Tony up by the front of his shirt and slammed him into the wall, knocking the air out of his chest. "Do you think you're fucking _funny!_" he growled, and Tony saw for the first time how dilated his pupils were, how flushed his face. "DO YOU THINK YOU'RE FUNNY, STARK?"

Tony choked out, "No. No, Barton. Not...not funny."

Clint tossed Tony across the room with for more ease than seemed possible, and he landed hard on one of the tables. He rolled, ending up on the floor under the table. He was pretty close to the door now, if he could just get out—

Barton grabbed his leg, dragging him from under the table. Reacting on instinct, Tony kicked out as hard as he could. His foot didn't connect with anything, but he felt Barton's wrist twist and his grip loosened. Tony yanked his leg free, and, scarcely aware of how he managed to do it, launched himself out the door.

"JARVIS, lock it," he barked. Clint slammed against the door and tried to yank it open. He pounded against it with his fists. The door shook, but held. With a snarl, he turned from the door and stalked back into the lab. He threw himself onto one of the stools, and was still for all of ten seconds before he began scratching at his arms and chest, tugging at the fabric of the armor. He did this for a few seconds, motions becoming more and more frenzied, before he ripped the offending garment off entirely and slammed it on the table, glaring at it as if it had personally insulted him.

Tony, somewhat dazed, pulled out his phone.

_What the _fuck _was that?_

* * *

"So," Tony asked, "What the fuck, exactly, was that?"

Natasha hesitated, but decided to just go with it. "After what happened with Loki, Clint...I guess the 'official' word for it is 'somniphobia.' Or 'hypnophobia.' That's what I read, anyway. He's afraid to go to sleep."

Tony nodded. "And let me guess. He's enlisted some help with staying awake. Cocaine?"

"Amphetamine."

"Ah."

Silence.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who's reading this!

Please review, it makes me happy.


	4. Speed Freak Assassin

Warning: language, mention of drug use, some blood.

I do not own the Avengers.

* * *

Between the two of them, Tony and Natasha managed to get Clint off the floor and maneuvered him to his room upstairs. They dumped him on the bed, and, after a moment's hesitation, Natasha yanked off his boots. She turned on the light next to the bed and pulled Clint's right hand closer. She saw that the bleeding had slowed to a sluggish stream. His left hand was doing better—it had stopped bleeding entirely. He had numerous lacerations on his arms and back, but only one or two were still slowly leaking blood. Maybe, she thought, they could avoid medical all together.

"Stark. I need water. And a washcloth. And tweezers. And...superglue, if you have it."

Of course he had superglue. Who did she think he _was_?

Tony disappeared into the bathroom and returned a few moments later with a stack of washcloths and towels, the tweezers, and a basin of warm, soapy water. "Do you want the superglue for what I _think _you do?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She nodded. "Yeah."

"Okay. I have something that'll work better. It's in my lab, I'll be right back."

While he was gone, Natasha set about carefully cleaning the wounds on Clint's hands. She pulled out shard after shard of glass, combing over his hands meticulously to make sure she didn't leave any behind.

Tony returned when she was about halfway through cleaning the blood away from the wounds on Clint's back and arms. He stood in the doorway, watching her work for a few minutes. When she'd finished, he said, "Here," and handed her a small tube. "It's like that liquid stitches shit, but better. It's stickier, more water proof, and longer lasting. I made it myself."

She nodded. "Could you go find some gauze and tape?"

Tony, prone to blowing himself up in the lab, kept a pretty well stocked first aid supply. "Sure. Rolled gauze, or pads?"

"Both, if you have it."

He ducked back out of the room, glad to both be useful and to get away from the blood.

Natasha uncapped the tube and, taking Clint's hand, squeezed a line of the adhesive into the worst cut. She held the lips of the wound closed as the substance hardened, sealing the injury. She repeated the process for the largest cuts on his hands and fingers.

When Tony returned, she took the offered gauze and rolled some around Clint's knuckles. "Should I immobilize his hand, do you think?"

Tony shrugged.

Natasha sighed, deciding against immobilization, and rolled gauze around Clint's other hand. She used Tony's miracle adhesive to close the worst of Clint's remaining wounds, and then used gauze pads to cover as much of the damage as she could. Satisfied with her work, she tossed all of the bloody washcloths into the water basin and sat back in her chair with a sigh.

She was asleep in minutes.

* * *

Clint slept for over fourteen hours, and when he awoke, it was with a start. He sat up, gasping. In a second, he felt hands on his shoulders, pushing him back down. He struggled against the pressure, lashing out.

"...Clint! Barton! Calm down! _Barton_!" His brain struggled to make out the words. He thrashed for another second, but then it clicked. He recognized that voice. Tasha. He sagged back onto the bed.

For a moment, the pair looked at each other, almost warily. Clint, unable to bear his disadvantageous perspective, dragged himself up so that he was sitting. The stare down continued. Finally, after an eon or so, Natasha asked cautiously, "Clint...what do you remember from last night?"

There was a lengthy pause.

Then, "Oh, Christ," he said, his voice dripping with shame and self-loathing. Natasha took that to mean he remembered rather a lot.

"It's okay, Barton," she said, the words sounding weak and useless to her own ears.

"Yeah? In what _fucking _universe is this okay?" he snarled. She must have sounded weak and useless to him, as well.

He looked taken aback by his own words. He offered a mumbled, "Shit, Tasha, I'm sorry," and lapsed into silence, clearly engaged in some serious, vicious, mental self-flagellation.

Well, fuck that.

"Get up, Barton," she said. "You're not laying here all day. You need to get your ass up, apologize to Stark, and get the fuck to work." He glared at her, incredulous. "_Move it_!"

Surprised into action, he did exactly that.

Ten minutes later, standing in the shower (which he'd had to bargain with Natasha to take—she didn't want him getting his injuries wet. He'd had to promise to let her re-dress everything), he began to notice that he was ravenous. Possibly more hungry than he'd ever been in his life, actually. He abruptly shut the water off and stepped out of the bathtub. He dried himself off as quickly as possible and then, clad only in his boxers, ventured in search of food.

Natasha was sitting in the kitchen, sipping at a cup of coffee. Completely ignoring her, he opened the pantry, pulled out a box of cereal, poured a bowl, and added milk. He began wolfing it down.

"Jesus, Clint, when was the last time you ate?" Natasha said, torn between awe and disgust at the sheer volume of processed carbs he was consuming. He didn't reply.

"Clint?"

He slammed his fist on the table, sloshing the milk in his bowl, and growled, "_What_?"

Woah.

"Nothing," she said, resisting the urge to back away from the table. Clint resumed eating.

He was in the middle of his third bowl when Stark made an appearance.

"Good morning, happy people. Geez. Good morning, hungry people," he amended, noticing the nearly-empty box of Lucky Charms at Clint's elbow.

"Stark," Clint greeted him, awkwardly.

Tony's face looked, if possible, worse than it had the previous night. With time, the bruises had darkened into deep shades of black and blue.

Looking at him, Clint realized, was causing guilt to squirm and gnaw away at his gut. He figured he'd better get this over with. "Sorry about, uh, last night." God, his head was _killing _him. And maybe all those Lucky Charms hadn't been such a good idea...

Tony shrugged. "It's in the past, Barton. Next time you're going to tweak out, though, use someone else's face as a punching bag." Glib, but forgiving. As far as Tony Stark goes, that was downright diplomatic.

But not diplomatic enough. Without warning, Clint slid his chair back from the table and stood up, fists clenched. "What the _fuck _did you say?"

"Barton!" Natasha barked. "What the hell?"

Clint looked surprised to find he was standing. And then he promptly vomited three bowls of Lucky Charms onto the floor. He reflected that 'What the hell' was a pretty good question.

"Guess...this was a bad idea," he choked out, the taste of partially-digested cereal and stomach acid thick on his tongue. No one, including Clint himself, knew if he was referring to the Lucky Charms, standing up so quickly, or the shit-show from the previous night.

Tony looked about three seconds from following Clint's example and vomiting on the floor.

Natasha decided that breakfast was over.

* * *

He was, she decided, not really in any shape to go to work.

Instead, she'd taken him to the bathroom and re-dressed all of his wounds, adding more 'Tony's Miracle Medical Adhesive' where necessary. Then she'd set him up in front of the television and called Fury. He wasn't an easy man to lie to, but she was one of the best spies in the world, so she persevered. And, apparently, no one wanted to hang out with people suffering from "massive food poisoning." Natasha filed that information away for future reference.

When she'd returned, Clint had been sitting on the couch in almost exactly the same position she'd left him, remote control untouched on the cushion next to him, eyes open but unseeing. Slowly, they drifted closed, only to snap open again a few seconds later.

Clearly, he was exhausted.

"You can sleep, you know," she said.

He gave a humorless chuckle. "Think I'll pass."

She didn't know how long he'd have a choice.

They sat together in silence, as one program ended and another began. During the first commercial break, Clint said, seemingly out of nowhere, "You must think I'm an idiot."

Trying not to sound too vehement, Natasha said, "Yes. I do." A few moments passed before she added, "Why didn't you say something?"

"What should I have said?" Clint asked. "That I was afraid to do something I've been doing since the day I was born? That I'm such a fucking coward that I couldn't handle doing something that comes naturally to every other person on the fucking planet? That even the _idea_ of going to sleep makes me want to throw up or—or what, Tasha? _What should I have said_?" His eyes were wide and desperate, his voice threaded through with nervous exhaustion and despair. He could hear his own weakness echoing in his ears, and he hated himself for it.

Natasha sighed, pushing back against the frustration and anger rising up inside of her. "You could have said any of that. Clint. You _should_ have said _anything_, rather than...this. Do you even know how dangerous drug addiction is?"

"Save the lecture, Tasha." God, he sounded so _tired_.

"I'll take that as 'no, I don't know how dangerous this is.' Christ, Clint, amphetamine can cause heart attacks, seizures...strokes. Withdrawal can be fatal. Withdrawal from Valium can be fatal, too. Were you thinking at _all_?"

"I'm not going through withdrawal," he said shortly.

"Not yet," Natasha replied.

"Not _ever_," Clint said, his words edged with steel.

Dumbfounded, Natasha said, "You can't be serious. After last night? You could have killed Stark. You could have killed yourself." The emotions she'd been fighting against for days rose in a wave, and broke free. "Oh, and in case you've forgotten, you work for one of the most powerful governmental agencies in the world. Drugs will get you fired, because they can get you _killed_. What the hell is SHIELD supposed to do with a _speed freak _assassin?" Her voice had grown progressively louder, and she had leaned closer to him, so that as she finished her diatribe, she was practically yelling in Clint's face.

He closed his eyes, as if blocking out her visage could block out her words. When she was through, he opened them, slowly. "I think they'd do about the same thing they'd do with one who's so fucking crazy he's afraid to go sleep," he said, calmly. "Tasha, where's my bag?"

Natasha slowly shook her head, all ability for speech deserting her.

Clint stood and walked away.

* * *

This ended up being shorter than I had anticipated, but it seemed like a decent place to stop.

Next chapter will have more bad decisions and lots of angst. Who doesn't love that combination?

Thanks to everyone who's reading and commenting, I really appreciate feedback.


	5. Non Optional

Warnings: language, brief mention of drug use, vague descriptions of weaponry because honestly, it's not my cup of tea.

To the people who have felt obliged to school me on Detroit: I lived there for five years. I'm just poking a little fun at it, because honestly, it was the worst five years of my life. Sorry if I offended anyone.

I do not own the Avengers.

* * *

He didn't come back, and that was a problem.

Natasha waited and worried, watching the time tick by. After half an hour, she accepted that he probably was not going to return.

"JARVIS, where the _fuck _is Barton?" Stark's creepy stalker-AI had its uses after all, she supposed.

"He departed from the building ten minutes ago Ms. Romanoff. Would you like me to attempt to contact him?"

"Yeah. Wait. No."

"Ms. Romanoff?"

She'd stayed up all night for him. She'd cleaned the blood off him, tried to heal his wounds. She had worried, and cared, and lied for him. It had been hard, really hard, and awkward. And after all that, he'd just left? Just like that? Well, fuck that, and fuck him.

She was done.

"Yeah, cancel that, JARVIS."

Part of her mind was still screaming at her, with red flashing lights and shrieking alarms. She knew how much danger Clint was in, how his addiction could ruin his life, how it already _was_. She knew that turning her back now was about the worst possible thing she could do. He needed someone to stand behind him, someone to care, when he so clearly didn't.

She_ knew _that. But it didn't matter. She wasn't going to be that person. If he wanted to ignore his problems, who the fuck was she to get in the way of that?

Natasha steeled herself, banishing her lingering worry and anxiety. Clint was a big boy, he could handle his own shit.

Right?

* * *

Clint found his bag on the floor of lab three, surrounded by what seemed like a half-ton of broken glass and three quarters of his blood volume. Okay, maybe it wasn't _that _much blood, but somehow knowing that it was his made it seem worse. Seeing the swirls and whorls he had drawn while lying there, he felt vaguely nauseous.

He knew he'd have to be more careful in the future. Tasha was right, after all. He could have killed Stark, though he liked to think the billionaire would have donned his suit and put him down, if it had come to that. Those bracelets activated pretty damn fast. Still, he had been reckless. And that had to stop.

The bag, he saw, was open, and Clint felt a flash of irritation. _Of course she took them, dumbass, who wouldn't? _But, on top of the rest of his things, more-or-less where he'd left them, he found his bottles. Both were present, and both were still full. He remembered then that Natasha had dosed him with Valium. She would have had to go into his bag to get it. And she _put it back_. He shook his head, struck by the immense trust she had shown him.

A trust, he thought as he uncapped bottle #1, he probably did not deserve.

Within a few minutes, he was on the street outside Stark Tower. He didn't quite know where he was going, but the Tower felt claustrophobic. He was surprised—although, he shouldn't have been—when his feet took him back to SHIELD. He supposed it wasn't exactly like he had a life outside of work and saving the world.

He ran into Fury in the lobby of the building, about ten feet inside the door. What were the odds of that? Really?

"Barton," the director said, dryly, "I thought you had food poisoning. _Massive _food poisoning."

Is that what Tasha had told him? "Uh, I did. It's better now. Must have got it all out. Better out than in. You know?" He was babbling. Fuck.

Fury rolled his eyes. Eye. "Since you've decided to grace us with your presence, I have something I need you to do."

"What's that, sir?"

"There's a mutant or some shit causing trouble in Detroit. Structural fires, explosions, that sort of thing. I don't know if it's intentional or if it's accidental, but it's got to stop. They have enough issues there on their own. One of our teams managed to tag the guy with some sort of tracking device, so it's just a matter of retrieval. I'm sending Rogers in to get him. He needs a lift. Since you'll be there, you can help him out."

Clint couldn't help but notice the subtle way he didn't actually get a choice in the matter.

Fury continued, "Bring only what you need. This should be an in-and-out sort of thing."

Clint nodded, heading towards the elevator.

"Barton?" Fury called from behind him. Clint turned. "The fuck happened to your hands?"

Clint looked down at the bandages around his knuckles, and thought quickly. "Accident in Stark's lab, sir." Well, that was true. Kind of. "It's fine."

"If you say so," the director said, with narrowed eyes.

Clint mentally shrugged and got on the elevator. In the locker room, he grabbed his bow and its accoutrement, and, after consideration, strapped on a pair of pistols. He added a knife at his ankle, just in case. Then, he shoved the rest of his belongings into his locker and slammed it shut. He immediately regretted not packing about fifteen other weapons, but dismissed the feeling. He was traveling light, after all.

Rogers was waiting for him in the co-pilot's seat of the jet. "Barton," the supersoldier greeted him.

"Rogers," Clint replied easily, glad to see that the captain had traded his spangly outfit in for something a little more low-key. "Ready to go?"

"Been ready for half an hour, Barton, just been waiting on you." Steve cast a sideways look at Clint, noticing the bandages on his hands and the dark circles under his eyes. Feeling that discretion was the better part of valor, though, he didn't mention it.

"Sorry about that, Cap. I had food poisoning." Laughing (perhaps too hard) at the concerned look on Steve's face, Clint got them in the air and headed west.

* * *

"Jesus," said Clint, "Remind me never to park my jet here again. I'm kinda worried someone's going to steal it."

The Detroit City airport left something to be desired. It was located in a...questionable part of the city. On the plus side, it was almost completely empty, making it easy for them to escape notice. It wasn't like they were undercover or anything, but Clint just didn't want to draw unnecessary attention. Paranoia was such an ingrained part of his personality at this point that he just accepted it.

The car rental kiosk was closed, and looked as if it had been for awhile. Luckily, Fury had arranged for a car to be dropped off for them. Soon, they were on Woodward Avenue, heading south towards downtown.

"So, Cap, what's the plan?" Clint asked, impatiently bouncing his leg up and down, and leaning over to fiddle with the radio.

This, understandably, made Steve nervous, because Clint was driving.

"Uh, could you please watch the road?" Steve asked, remarkably polite, considering how Clint had nearly driven into the side of a bus.

"What? Oh, yeah, sure."

His cell phone rang. He wrestled it out of his pocket, nearly driving into yet another bus in the process. Damn, those things did _not _like to stay in their own lane, did they? Christ almighty. "Hello?" he answered.

"Barton?" It was Fury.

"Yes, sir?"

"We've got a location for you. He's just off Michigan Avenue, near the freeway. I'll send you the coordinates."

"All right. We'll check it out." He ended the call. "Great news, Rogers. Fury found our friend." Steve, Clint noted, didn't seem to share his enthusiasm.

He checked the coordinates and parked a few blocks away. It was only about nine o'clock, but the area was almost completely deserted. He didn't know if that was ominous or not.

The pair exited the vehicle and began walking cautiously towards the indicated location. They found themselves walking down a block of dilapidated houses, inhabited only by prowling stray cats and...was that a possum?

"Nice neighborhood," Clint snarked, his voice carrying in the near-silence.

Steve was too busy wondering what the hell had happened to this place since the 1940s to chastise him.

Suddenly, the top floor of the building three houses up from them lit up in an explosion that colored the deepening twilight around them in shades of red and orange. Through the falling debris, Clint picked out a shape running into the night.

"Bet that's our guy, Cap, this way!"

They broke into a run. Between Steve's enhanced speed and Clint's sharp eyesight, it should have been an easy task to catch this guy, but he clearly knew where he was going a whole lot better than they did. After a few minutes, though, it became clear where he was going.

"He's going to that building!" Steve called to Clint, pointing up ahead. Looming in the middle of the largely-flat expanse, was what appeared to have once been a train station.

"Fuck," panted Clint. That building had to be at least fifteen stories high. That guy could lose them _easily _if he managed to get inside.

The headache that had been haunting him for hours began to blossom into something truly magnificent.

_Fuck this_, thought Clint. He stopped and whipped out his bow. The dim light was not ideal, but he'd made harder shots. He nocked an arrow and took careful aim before letting it fly. It hit its mark, just above the guy's right knee, and he stumbled and hit the ground hard.

Steve reached their quarry first. Clint, whose headache had, in just a few seconds, reached "epic migraine" proportions, took a moment to catch his breath and stave off a wave of nausea before joining him.

The guy was babbling something about a chemical spill and how he couldn't _help _blowing things up, it just sometimes happened when he touched them, and he thought it might have something to do with his sweat, and...

Clint decided to leave decoding that to Steve. Instead, he took out his knife and cut off the guy's pant leg off and fashioned it into a bandage. The wound wasn't _too_ bad (Clint _never _miscalculated how much force he'd need in his shots), but it was bad enough. Clint imagined Fury would be pissed if this guy went into hypovolemic shock before he could be properly questioned.

As Clint went to bandage his leg, though, the guy suddenly freaked out. He kicked out with his uninjured leg, catching Clint square in the chest.

"What the fuck?" Clint sputtered, massaging his bruised sternum.

"Haven't you been _listening_?" The man's words were tinged with panic and hysteria.

Clint had to concede that he had not been.

"There is something wrong with me. With my sweat. And blood. And…other stuff. I don't know what, but it's not good. I think it might be killing me."

Clint failed to see how this was his problem, but the guy continued. "And now you're covered in it. In my blood."

Clint looked down at his hands and saw the blood that was saturating the bandages wrapped there. It wasn't his. Great. He had potentially poisonous blood in contact with his still-kind-of-open wounds.

Fantastic.

* * *

"If you're so innocent," Clint said later, on the jet, "Why the fuck did you run?"

"I've seen the movies. I know how it is. I figured it was only a matter of time before the government sent someone to kill me."

Clint thought that was pretty melodramatic. But then he remembered how the government had initially reacted to Dr. Banner, and reluctantly admitted that this guy might have a point. The government was not exactly friendly towards the unintentionally destructive.

Once Clint and Steve had explained to him (his name, it turned out, was Chris, but Clint was too pissed off at him to acknowledge he had a name) where they were going, getting him to agree to come with them wasn't hard. He wasn't impressed with the changes that the chemical spill had wrought on his physique, and was willing to do about anything to reverse it.

Clint had finished bandaging his leg, because really, he couldn't get any _more _exposed to the potential toxin.

While he was engaged in that, Steve called Fury and told him about the situation. Fury said he would send in a team to analyze the contents of the barrels that Chris had stumbled over in an abandoned warehouse while doing some "urban exploration." Sure, there was a lot of abandoned stuff in Detroit, but it seemed suspicious that someone had just left a few barrels of a substance that could turn people into bombs lying around.

Steve had also mentioned that Clint had been exposed to Chris's blood, and Fury had ordered a slew of medical tests and procedures to make sure Clint wasn't going to start blowing things up with his body fluids.

"Non-optional," the director had said.

So they bundled Chris up, covering all of his exposed skin so that he didn't accidentally sweat and blow up the jet, and in a bit less than two hours they were back at SHIELD.

When the medical team came for him, Clint remembered why blood tests might be a bad idea. But he couldn't refuse. Not with Fury standing _right there_. So he clamped down on the anxiety rising in his chest and allowed the nurse to take several vials of his blood.

He hoped that the lab would only test to make sure that whatever was wrong with Chris wasn't actually contagious.

But he should have known that SHIELD would be nothing short of meticulous.

* * *

Okay, so, not as much angst as I thought there would be. Next chapter, though, the shit is going to hit the fan, I promise.

Thanks to everyone reading this!

Please review so I know how I'm doing.


	6. Breathless Panicked Terror

Warnings: language, mention of drug use.

Please give me leeway with the science—everything I know, I learned from television and two semesters of organic chemistry.

I do not own the Avengers.

* * *

With some bitterness, Bruce wondered when, exactly, he had become a biologist.

As far as he could remember, he had gotten his PhD in physics. Sure, he'd done some work in biology—you can't work on a super soldier serum without biology, after all—and his research into his own condition necessitated that he spend a fair amount of time working in biology as well, but he still self-identified as a physicist, damn it!

He sighed and shook his head. It wasn't as if SHIELD didn't pay him generously for the work he did. He'd just appreciate it if they just didn't act like "science" was a generic catch-all, and would find a damn biologist to do the damn biology.

Although, Bruce had to concede, he _was _kind of an expert on being massively, albeit it accidentally, destructive. Maybe that was the unique qualification SHIELD was looking for in this case.

It was just after 9 AM. A courier had arrived about an hour ago with a package containing several vials of blood, a few tissue samples, and some files. The accompanying letter explained in detail how a chemical spill had affected some guy—Chris Thompson, age 29—and asked if Dr. Banner could please take a look at these samples and see if he could figure out "what the fuck is going on, since you're so fucking smart."

Bruce suspected that particular addition had been Fury's. At least he hoped so. He didn't think that SHIELD's scientists would be so egregiously rude.

He was rather alarmed to see that some of the samples were labeled as "Barton, Clint," and he dug through the accompanying files until he found a note explaining how agent Barton had been exposed to Thompson's blood. It was attached to the report from the doctor who had done a preliminary examination of Clint after he'd returned from Detroit.

Bruce set the report aside. He picked up the file on Thompson and began reading. He set that aside as well, after a few minutes, having determined that it was mostly useless.

He figured he was looking for a toxin of some kind, or a bacteria, or a virus, or...just about anything, because having your body fluids explode was a pretty fucking weird problem that _shouldn't _be able to occur at all, and so it could be _anything_.

The easiest thing to test for was toxins. Well, that was assuming that it was a known toxin, which it almost certainly wasn't, because there were no toxins known to cause Explosive Body Fluid Syndrome. But scientists should never skip over steps in the scientific method, Bruce reflected wryly. Doing so could be disastrous.

He set up some of Thompson's blood to check for toxins and run anything it found against the database. Then, deciding to save some time, he did Clint's, too. Trust Tony to have a lab set up with multiple gas chromatograph-mass spectrometers. Well, the billionaire had said it was "Candyland" here. He hadn't been lying.

Figuring that the samples would run for a few hours, at least, he decided to see if he could isolate a microbe from the blood.

Half an hour into setting up for that, the computer connected to one of the GC-MSs beeped, indicating that it had a result.

_No way_, Bruce thought. _That was way too easy_. He turned to investigate.

It was Clint's blood sample that was finished.

Bruce, now really intrigued, checked the results. Then checked them again. Then he dug around on the lab table, trying to find the report on Clint the doctor had sent over. _Where the hell did I...ah, success! _He flipped it open.

And was not surprised at all by what he was reading, given the information on the computer screen behind him.

"Heart rate...elevated. Blood pressure...elevated. Temperature...elevated," he read aloud to himself. Well, all of that made sense.

Since Clint had just tested positive for amphetamines. And...Valium?

Bruce thought that this was definitely a problem.

* * *

Dr. Banner had sounded a little strained on the phone, when he called Clint and told him that there was an issue with his blood work.

Clint wasn't stupid. He knew the "issue" was one of two things. Either he was dying from some kind of really fucking weird exploding condition, or Banner had caught on to his secret. Neither possibility was particularly good.

In fact, they were so terrible that he had packed a bag and was halfway to fleeing the city before reason caught up with him. If he _was _going to turn into some weird kind of human bomb, he figured it would be best if he knew. As for the other part...well, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Right?

Dr. Banner was on the 75th floor of Stark Tower, carefully using a pipette to transfer minute amounts of liquid between two beakers. When Clint entered the lab, Bruce stopped what he was doing, removed his safety goggles, and gave him a _very _long look.

Uncomfortable, Clint said, "Have you, uh, had any luck with Thompson's...stuff?"

Bruce narrowed his eyes a bit, but when he answered, he was as friendly and mild-mannered as ever. "None at all. Well, I did determine that his DNA hasn't been altered."

"That's...good, right?" Clint said, almost stiffly.

"I think so. It'll be a few days until I know more. Longer, if I don't ever get the samples from the site." They lapsed into silence.

Bruce had been carefully observing Clint since he walked into the lab. His behavior didn't seem to be too...off. At least initially. But as the silence between them lengthened, Bruce saw how Clint began to fidget, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His pupils were slightly dilated, and a faint sheen of sweat was visible on his brow. Bruce could tell that he was definitely on something.

Clint, for his part, was becoming progressively more nervous. If Banner hadn't made any progress on Thompson's blood, then there was really only one reason he would have called Clint here. Clint considered making a run for it, fuck, his bag was still packed and in his car downstairs, he could be out of the city in half an hour...

"Fuck, Banner, just _say it _already," Clint growled, the words leaving his mouth before his brain knew he'd been planning on saying them.

"Say what, Barton?" Bruce continued watching him, the very definition of calm, his expression inscrutable.

"The 'issue' with my blood work. Say. It." Clint felt a spike of anxiety piercing through his chest, but pushed it down ruthlessly. _You will _not _fucking panic right now, Barton._

Bruce saw the growing tension in the marksman's posture, in his jaw. He was wound tighter than his bowstring. Bruce decided it was time lay his cards on the table, before the other man snapped. "Your blood showed traces of amphetamines and diazepam, Clint." Calm, clinical. "Are you using?"

Clint thought that was pretty fucking stupid question (how _else _would the drugs get into his body?) but he appreciated Banner giving him the benefit of the doubt. He supposed in his line of work, it was possible that someone had drugged him, or something. Maybe. Or maybe he was part of some experimental government program, pilot-study sort of thing. Or, maybe...

"Barton?"

Clint realized he hadn't answered. He figured that he didn't have anything to lose by being honest. If anyone would understand about being completely fucked up, he thought it might be Banner. So he decided to just go for it. "Yeah."

"Yeah? Yeah, you're using?"

Another long silence. "Yeah."

Sure, Bruce had already known that. But it had been in the way that scientists "know" something before their tests have proven it conclusively. Now he knew for certain. And had no idea what to do.

He opted to continue his questioning, at least until he figured out a better game plan. "When did you start?"

"Couple of months ago, I guess."

"After...?" Bruce didn't need to be more specific.

"Yeah, after."

"Why?"

"I...started having panic attacks. When I tried to sleep. So..."

"You decided to stop sleeping." Neutral, non-judgmental. That was good. "And the Valium?"

"I needed to sleep sometimes. Apparently."

Bruce nodded. "I don't suppose it occurred to you to tell someone about the anxiety?"

Clint scoffed, "Yeah, that'd go over well. 'Hi, I'm Clint Barton. I'm the guy who once helped a psychopath try and take over the world. Now I'm afraid to sleep. Is there anything you can do about that?'"

Bruce felt that Clint was underestimating the kind of support that SHIELD would provide its employees, even one who had once (albeit unwillingly) assisted in an attempt to subjugate humanity. More importantly, though, "You could have told one of us."

_Well, fuck_, Clint thought. That hadn't even occurred to him.

Bruce saw that he was flummoxed, and decided to stop pushing in that direction. Instead, he asked, "Does anyone know?"

Clint nodded. "Tasha. Stark."

"Tony knows?" That was unexpected.

"Yeah. The night before last...we had a run-in." Clint held up his hands, which Bruce now noticed were covered in cuts, some of which looked quite bad.

Still, despite the worry that was now trying to seep out of his pores and manifest as something corporeal, he maintained his composure (one of the benefits of all those years of yoga and breathing exercises) and said only, "Oh?"

"Yeah..."

Bruce made a note to himself to figure out what kind of "run in" resulted in that many lacerations. In the meantime... "Barton, I don't know what to do with this."

Clint appreciated his blunt honesty.

Bruce went on, "There's no real reason for me to include this in my report to SHIELD, since it has nothing to do with whatever's wrong with this Thompson guy. But...part of me wants to anyway. I can't believe you'd be so _stupid_, to go on missions _stoned_. You do dangerous work and...you're not superhuman. One stray bullet, one wrong move, and you're done."

Clint had heard most of this before. Still, he felt obliged to clarify. "I don't go on missions stoned, Banner."

"Really? Because amphetamines only stay in your blood for about twelve hours. That blood was drawn around three o'clock this morning. Which means you were using on or after three o'clock yesterday afternoon. Before your mission."

"Yeah, but I wasn't _stoned_, I just..."

"You just weren't sober."

Well, when he put it like _that_, Clint felt like a shithead.

After a moment, Bruce said, "Look, Barton. Clint. I'm not going to tell SHIELD. I'm not really sure it's the right thing to do, but I won't. Just...for God's sake, you can't keep going out on missions like that. You need to stop. And...it's going to be really hard, when you do."

Clint didn't want to think about that. He didn't need to. Withdrawal wasn't the issue. Sleeping was. Every night. Losing control of his body for _hours _at a time. The thought sent a wave of anxiety straight through his midsection. It jarred him into motion. He stood up abruptly, saying, "Thanks for your discretion, Dr. Banner, but I'm fine. Really." He turned towards the door.

"Wait, Barton," Bruce said. Clint paused. "You don't have to talk to some SHIELD shrink. God knows I'd probably rather die than go through that. But you need to talk to someone, and you _need _to stop using. Seriously. No one wants you to end up dead."

"Thanks, Banner," Clint said, voice flat. "I'll take that into consideration."

As he left, Bruce was left wondering if he'd had any kind of impact at all.

* * *

Surprisingly, Bruce had actually gotten through to Clint more than either of them realized.

Clint managed to get through most of a whole day of work after his early-ish morning meeting with the physicist. Most of it was spent getting as much information out of Thompson as possible about what the fuck, exactly, had happened to him. The SHIELD team that Fury had sent in had finished sampling the area, and had sent their data and materials to Dr. Banner. Clint hoped Banner would find it useful—most of what the forensics geek had been saying to him went way over his head.

That had kept him occupied until after eight o'clock. After that, he spent an hour carefully dodging Natasha, who was looking for him while trying very hard to look like she wasn't—a lesser person probably wouldn't have noticed. He returned to his crappy on-site standard-issue SHIELD apartment a bit after 9:30, and spent two hours watching the embarrassing reality programming that Stark had gotten him addicted to.

At midnight, he found himself, almost unexpectedly, lying in bed. He closed his eyes, trying to relax. But even closing his eyes caused his heart rate to pick up. His palms began to sweat. Still, he forced his eyes to stay closed, forced his breathing to stay even.

Exhausted, he dozed off.

And woke, less than five minutes later, sitting straight up with a gasp. Leaning over the side of the bed, he retched. Nothing came up but stomach acid; he hadn't eaten since his ill-fated Lucky Charms the previous morning.

"This is pathetic, Barton," he hissed aloud, when he'd caught his breath. "Man the fuck up already."

But telling himself how weak he was, how much of a failure he'd become, did nothing to quell the trembling in his hands.

So he got out of bed and wandered to the kitchen, where he'd dropped his bag when he'd gotten home. He opened it and pulled out bottle #2. He shook out a pair of the blue pills. He pocketed them and went back to his bedroom, and sat on the edge of his bed.

He pulled the pills out of his pocket, and stared at them.

Then set them down on the nightstand, with a frustrated sigh.

He laid back down. The cycle repeated. He lapsed into sleep, and jolted awake. Each awakening was the same: breathless, panicked, terrifying.

After the fourth round (how was it only two o'clock? Christ, it felt like he'd been in bed for _ages_), Clint was done. Soaked in sweat, trembling, and choking on his own breath, he scooped the pills back into his hand.

But hesitated again. He clenched his fist around the diazepam, fingernails digging deeply into his palms.

He placed the pills on the bed next to him.

And, with shaking hands, picked up his cell phone instead.

* * *

Her cell phone display said, "Barton," and Natasha wondered what that asshole could possibly want at two o'clock in the morning.

"What?" she answered testily, foregoing all social niceties. It was late, and he'd been dodging her. Oh, and he was a drug addict. He didn't get social niceties.

Silence.

"Barton, what the fuck?"

Still nothing.

Then, "...Tasha." A shuddering breath. A...sob?

Okay, now she was worried. God, _fuck _him. "Clint, are you okay?"

Silence, stretching into eternity. Broken, after an age, by a quiet, agonized, "No."

She sighed. "Hang on, Barton. I'll be there in a few."

So much for not caring.

* * *

I really struggled with this chapter, so I hope it was okay.

Please review! Otherwise, I float, adrift, in a sea of abject uncertainty and self-doubt.

Finally: if anyone's looking for a beta reader, and you think I'd be a good fit, hit me up.


	7. This Is All Me

Warning: language, very brief drug use.

I do not own the Avengers.

You should all thank my beta, irite, without whom this whole chapter would be comprised of commas and the word "thought."

* * *

The door was locked but that was only a minor inconvenience. Natasha picked the lock in under a minute, marveling that the apartment had such shoddy hardware. She supposed it proved that even SHIELD wasn't immune from cuts in government spending.

Clint's apartment was dark, the only light coming from the streetlights outside. She moved through the shadows silently, knowing this space almost as well as she knew her own.

Well, it didn't hurt that all of the SHIELD apartments had exactly the same layout.

She made her way through the kitchen and living room, back into the bedroom.

In the dim light, she could see that Clint was lying on his back on top of the rumpled blankets, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. But for a slight trembling in his hands and forearms, he was completely still. The smell of sweat and vomit hung thick in the air.

Natasha lingered in the doorway, uncertain of how to proceed. She settled for a quiet, "Clint."

He didn't immediately acknowledge her. Then, slowly, he turned his head. The lights outside reflected against the streaks of sweat (or tears?) on his face, and the pair locked eyes.

"I can't do this, Tasha," Clint said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

As much as she wanted to help him, there was something she had to know first. "Are you high?" Natasha asked bluntly.

He gave a bark of mirthless laughter. "Nope. This is all me."

Somehow, that was worse. She sighed. This was a fine mess they'd gotten into.

Slowly, he sat up. When he unclenched his fist, she saw he was holding a pair of blue pills. "Not that it wasn't a close call, though," he said, self-deprecation _almost _masking the self-loathing dripping from his words.

Natasha moved into the room and sat at the foot of the bed. Gently, she took Clint's hand and, meeting no resistance, removed the pills. She slipped them into her pocket. _Out of sight, out of mind_, she reasoned.

From the way his gaze followed the movement, she knew that probably wasn't actually true.

"Why did you call me, Clint?" she asked, in an attempt to distract him. "Not that I'm complaining. Fuck, I wish you'd called me months ago."

The corner of his mouth twitched up into something that was almost a smile, but it faded quickly. "I talked to Banner today. He found an 'issue' with my blood that he thought we needed to discuss."

Oh. That probably wasn't good. "What did he say?"

"Mostly the same thing you did. I'm an idiot, I need to be careful, I could die. He's not going to report me to SHIELD, though. I thought..."

She waited. After a moment, he continued, "I thought, there's no reason for him to lie for me. The least I could do was _try _ a little, but fuck, Tasha, I can't _do _this. It's so pathetic, _I'm _pathetic, I know. I just...I can't..."

He was on the verge of breaking down again. Natasha decided it was time to take charge. "Get up, Barton. Shower. We're leaving."

"...What?"

"We're not staying here. It smells like puke and there's only one bed. I'm not sleeping on a couch. So go shower. I'll pack."

Dazed, he complied.

As soon as the door closed behind him, she was on her feet. She headed back to the kitchen, where she'd seen Clint's bag sitting on the table. She removed both the pill bottles and walked over to the garbage can, intending to toss them out. She had wanted to do this before, but, respecting Clint's autonomy, had refrained. By calling her, though, and asking for her help (albeit implicitly...he'd never actually said the words, but calling someone at 2:00 AM in the midst of a panic attack was kind of hard to misread) he had indicated that he was ready to hand over his control. At least for a while.

She tossed the bottles into the garbage, but hesitated. And then, with great reluctance, she removed them. As much as she hated it, she suspected that they might need them. She didn't know much about drug withdrawal, but she _did _know that quitting cold turkey could be disastrous. She washed the bottles off in the sink and placed them in her jacket pocket.

Then, she returned to his bedroom and began throwing clothes into a bag. She was almost done when Clint emerged from the bathroom, clad only in a towel. He grabbed a handful of clothing (did he own anything but jeans and black t-shirts?), and returned to the bathroom. He exited a moment later, this time dressed, looking both rumpled and slightly bewildered.

Natasha figured clothing was all he'd really need where he was going. She zipped up the bag and tossed it at Clint who, purely out of reflex, managed to catch it. He slung the strap over his shoulder. Natasha led him out to her car, and he followed silently, almost placidly.

She hoped Stark didn't mind them coming over.

* * *

After Clint had left, Bruce's day had gotten progressively worse. This was impressive because he believed that confronting one of your friends about his drug abuse should never be the highlight of your day.

Bruce had determined that there were no microscopic life forms present in Thompson's blood, which was good. But then, some guys from SHIELD had come by with what seemed like a thousand boxes of _stuff _from the scene of the spill. Which they left haphazardly lying around everywhere.

Shortly after banging his shin on a stupidly placed box for the ninth time, Bruce thought it might be time for a break before he _smashed _something. He decided it was time for lunch.

Once in the Avengers' living quarters, he headed straight for the fridge. Unless Steve had gotten to it first, he knew there was some pizza left from last night.

On his way there, he'd barely glanced at Tony, who was sitting at the table consuming an obscene amount of espresso while reading the paper.

When he turned around, though, he nearly dropped his leftover pizza in shock.

"Hey, Bruce," Tony greeted him, as if half of his face wasn't covered in a massive bruise.

He was about to ask Tony what happened, but then he remembered that Clint had said the pair had a "run-in." So, instead, he just said, "Huh," and took a thoughtful bite of pizza.

"Really, Bruce? That's all you've got to say? And I thought you cared!" Tony's flair for the dramatic could not, apparently, be contained.

Bruce chewed slowly, and swallowed. "I talked to Barton today."

"Ah." _Well_, Tony thought, _that explains it_.

Bruce took another bite, gesturing at Tony's face, "Has Steve seen that yet?"

Tony smirked. "Yeah, he was just in here. Called me down from my beauty sleep to ramble on about some mission he had in Canada, like I should care. I just told him something exploded in my face. I was kind of offended by how quickly he believed it."

Bruce wisely chose not to comment on that. After a beat, Tony continued, "So, did he tell you...?"

"That he pummeled you? No. He said you had a 'run-in.' He's got a talent for understatement, I guess." Bruce paused, then asked, "What happened to his hands?"

"He took out a shelf of Pyrex. It was..." Tony remembered Clint's rage, his manic laughter, his blank stare as he laid on a bed of glass, drawing pictures in blood and water. "Bad," he finished, lamely.

Bruce watched the range of emotions that flickered over Tony's face, and decided not to press too much—if he wanted details, he supposed he could always pull out the security footage. Instead, he said, "I had to run a toxicology screening on him because he was exposed to an unknown contaminant. He tested positive for drugs."

"Yeah, he would have," Tony said, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. "Amphetamines, according to Romanoff. And probably Valium, since I _watched _him take that." Tony watched Bruce chew for a moment. When he'd swallowed, Tony asked, "Are you going to tell Fury?"

Bruce shook his head. "No. I...wanted to. Doing his job with impaired judgment is too risky. But I don't know that telling SHIELD would help him, you know?" He paused, before adding, "I don't know what would."

Tony had some suggestions. Most of which involved smacking Barton upside the head with varying levels of force. He didn't imagine Bruce would agree with him, though, so he said nothing.

Bruce finished his pizza. "Well, I should head back downstairs. I've got something like fifteen boxes of 'evidence' to go through, thanks to SHIELD. You should come down later. You know," he said, eyeing the billionaire's coffee and newspaper, "if you're not too busy."

"Sure, Bruce, I'll get right on that," Tony said, clearly without an intention of doing so. Bruce rolled his eyes, but left the billionaire to his caffeine.

Back in the lab, he'd discovered that at least one box contained materials that should have been refrigerated six hours ago and had now become unusable. Another box was leaking some unknown fluid onto the floor. Yet another box contained rats. Live, potentially contaminated rats. Rats that might burst into flame or explode.

Bruce felt a headache coming on.

* * *

The drive to Stark Tower was a quiet one. Natasha hadn't actually said where they were going, and Clint was seized with an irrational fear that she was going to dump him at some rehab facility, or worse. He knew it was crazy—_Tasha wouldn't do that to you, Barton_—but his mind was strained from panic and sleep deprivation. Rational thought just wasn't happening.

He didn't relax until she was parked in the Tower's underground parking garage.

They got out of the car, and Clint grabbed his bag from the back seat. Natasha swiped her key card at the elevator, and pressed the button for the Avengers' living quarters.

"Tasha?" Clint said, quietly, about 15 floors into their ascent.

"Yeah?"

"Why are we here?"

She shrugged. "My room's right next to yours. There's no vomit on the floor. JARVIS can monitor your vitals if—" She cut herself off, glancing quickly at Clint.

His face was carefully blank when he said, "When I start going through withdrawal."

_When_, he had said, not _if_. She wondered if it had already started. "Yeah," she replied, with a small nod.

He leaned against the back wall of the elevator, and closed his eyes. "Tasha," he breathed, after a moment, "I'm so _tired_."

She sighed. "I know, Clint."

She didn't, though, he thought. Not really.

The elevator stopped and opened with a quiet 'ding!' Natasha was glad to see that the whole floor was blessedly dark and quiet. Even Tony, the infamous insomniac, had retired. Or, more likely, he was 15 floors down, tinkering in one of the labs. Still, the pair met no one as they slipped into Clint's bedroom.

Clint tossed his bag indifferently into a corner, and stared apprehensively at the bed.

Fuck, he was tired.

Behind him, Natasha watched as he practically swayed on his feet. Exhaustion seemed to be hitting him hard. She knew he hadn't slept in the last twenty-four hours. No, wait. It was probably more like thirty-six hours. While she knew he'd grown accustomed to staying awake for days, that was with chemical intervention. If he was without it...

"Clint," she asked, "When was the last time you took anything?"

He considered for a moment, still staring at the bed with slightly unfocused eyes. "It was just before I saw Banner. So, maybe ten o'clock yesterday morning?"

She nodded. "And the last time you slept?"

That was easy. "The other night."

As she had suspected, then. That meant it had been just over 36 hours with no sleep, and eighteen hours with no drugs.

"Barton, you need to sleep."

Clint turned around suddenly, violently. "No _shit_, Romanoff, what the fuck do you think—"

His words were cut off when he saw the pair of blue pills she was offering him.

"What the fuck, Tasha?" he said, bluntly.

"Look, Clint, you need to sleep. Things are going to get...bad. Soon. You need to rest while you can."

Without warning, he slapped at her hand, sending the pills flying into the corners of the room. "_Fuck_ that, Tasha, I _need_ to stop being such a worthless piece of _shit_."

"And was that really a good start?" Natasha asked, remarkably calm. She reigned in her desire to walk out of the room and instead steeled herself for his next attack. She wasn't going to abandon him now, not after he'd decided to trust her with this.

But the attack never came. He sat down on the bed, resting his face in his hands. "Christ, I'm sorry. No, you're right. I'm just...not ready. For this. And I'm just _so _tired..."

Natasha retrieved the Valium and set it on the bedside table. "Then sleep, Clint. Tomorrow's going to be hell."

With a wry smile, he said, "That's really encouraging, Nat." But he scooped the pills into his hand and swallowed them dry, carefully avoiding her eyes as he did it.

She turned to leave, thinking that he might want some privacy.

But...

"Don't go," he whispered, almost too softly to hear. Almost like he didn't _want _her to hear but couldn't stop the words from escaping.

With a tiny, internal sigh, she started to settle into one of the chairs. Then, changing her mind, she climbed into the half of the king-sized bed that Clint wasn't occupying, lying on her side so that she was facing him.

"I told you I wasn't sleeping on a couch."

* * *

"Mr. Stark," JARVIS said, momentarily muting the music blaring in Tony's headphones, "Mr. Barton and Ms. Romanoff have entered the building. They are en route to the Avengers' quarters."

"Huh, that's odd," Tony replied. He checked the time. It was a bit after 3:00 AM. "What are they doing?"

"They have retired to Mr. Barton's bedroom, sir. Do you wish to speak with them?"

_Well, yeah_, Tony thought,_ I do_. But, for once, he restrained himself. God only knew what they were up to. "No, that's okay. I'll get them in the morning. Let me know when either of them gets up."

"Certainly, sir."

Tony checked his watch again, debating. He decided that 3:11 AM was an early night, but decided to call it anyway. He headed upstairs to his penthouse.

Four and a half hours later, JARVIS awoke him, "Sir, Ms. Romanoff is awake and making coffee."

"Why shd'I'care?" he mumbled, barely conscious.

"You wished to speak with her last night, sir, or Mr. Barton."

Fuck, that was right. Tony gracelessly extracted himself from his bed and threw on the same clothes he'd been wearing the previous night. Anything happening before 9:00 AM was not worth showering for.

Still half-blind with sleep, Tony stumbled into the Avengers' quarters and poured himself a cup of coffee. He sucked down over half the cup before greeting Natasha with a "Good morning, beautiful."

For her part, she seemed kind of baffled as to why he was there. "Stark. You're up...early."

"Yeah," he said, more awake now. "I wanted to talk with you. Was gonna have JARVIS summon you when you got here last night, but he said you'd both gone into Barton's bedroom, and I didn't want to 'interrupt' anything."

Natasha reflected, for the thousandth time, that JARVIS could be really, really creepy. Occasionally useful, but almost always creepy. She rolled her eyes at Tony, and said dryly, "Yes, Stark, between his panic attacks and withdrawal symptoms, Clint and I had amazing, raucous, mind-blowing sex. It was fantastic."

"Wait," Tony said. "Withdrawal?"

She nodded. "He called me last night, when he was trying to sleep. He was panicking, and he called me instead of using. He's...trying."

Tony nodded. Natasha continued, "I brought him here. I don't know much about drug withdrawal, but I didn't want him to be alone. He trusted me, and I don't want to fuck this up."

Tony, despite the damage Clint had done to his face...and lab...felt the same way. The man clearly needed friends right now. Tony thought that maybe Clint had gotten fucked over worse than any of them by Loki's attack, and if he could help, then it was probably time he stepped up.

"If we're going to do this," Tony said, slowly, thinking, "We have some research to do."

Natasha shot him a grateful look. "Where should we start?"

* * *

Thanks to everyone who's reading and leaving feedback.

The next chapter is, I think, going to be quite the roller coaster ride. Hope you're all ready.

Please Review. They bring light to the otherwise impenetrable darkness of my meaningless existence.


	8. A Simple Solution

Warnings: language, drug use, attempted suicide. Things get pretty ugly.

I've never gone through amphetamine withdrawal. Though I did research, everything in this chapter is just my **over-dramatized **interpretation.

Thanks to my beta, irite, for dissuading me from sending this chapter to the recycle bin. It was a close call!

I do not own the Avengers.

* * *

Clint slept for almost sixteen hours and when he awoke, the process of rediscovering body parts and reacquainting himself with reality was slow and disorganized.

When he'd remembered how to use his limbs, he blindly reached his hand out towards the bottle he knew he usually kept on the table next to his bed.

But there was nothing there.

Against his better judgment, he cracked his eyes open. There was a sunbeam slicing through the gap in the curtains on the west-facing window, and it assaulted his eyes. He clenched them shut again with a pained hiss.

Slowly, he tried again, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light in the room.

He was momentarily surprised to find himself in his room at Stark Tower, but that faded quickly as the memories from the previous night washed over him. With the memories came emotions: shame, self-disgust, and the beginning feather-light touches of anxiety.

With a growl at his own _uselessness_, Clint heaved himself out of bed.

That endeavor ended faster than it had begun, though, as he felt suddenly faint and collapsed backwards onto the bed. _Not surprising, Barton_, he thought. _You're lucky that's all that's wrong with you_.

Careful reflection, though, revealed that it wasn't. The headache that had become his near-constant companion throbbed and pulsed, white-hot behind his eyes. He was about ready to eat his own arm, he was so hungry.

And he was...really, really...pissed off, he realized, with some surprise.

The door opened behind him, and he turned with a snarled, "Get the fuck _out!_"

Natasha, though she looked a bit surprised, ignored him. Carefully, she crossed the room, and set the tray she was carrying on the bed. It contained, he noted wryly, no Lucky Charms. Instead, she'd opted for "bland" and had gone with soup and crackers. And...water. Well, even that shit looked amazing.

With much gusto and few manners (he didn't even bother with a 'thank you'), he tucked in. He was finished within five minutes. And he was still ravenous.

He got up, intending to head to the kitchen for something else. But Natasha blocked his way. "What the hell, Tasha, move," he said tersely.

"Fuck that. You eat more, you're going to puke. Again. Sit down."

But he didn't feel like playing nice. He reached out to shove her out of his way.

Natasha, with little effort, knocked him flat on his ass. With a raised eyebrow, she said, "You could have just sat in a chair, but this works, too. I guess."

Bewildered at his sudden repositioning, he stayed on the floor.

From her pocket, Natasha pulled out four or five pills. His pills. What the fuck was she doing with his pills? Where had she gotten them? Had she gone through his stuff? Of course she had, it was practically a law that you couldn't trust drug addicts. But did she have to stand there, _dangling _them in front of his face? Did she want him to sit up and beg like a fucking _dog_? What the _fuck_?

Rage churned in his midsection.

Oblivious to (or ignoring) his rising emotions, Natasha said, calmly, "How many of these do you usually take at a time, Clint?"

"What?" he snapped.

"How many of these do you take at a time? One? Two? Ten?"

Avoiding her eyes, he muttered something.

"What was that?" Natasha asked.

Glaring at her, now, with narrowed eyes, he said more clearly, "Four."

She nodded, and placed all but two of the pills back in her pocket. She held the pills out to Clint.

He didn't take them. "You condoning drug use now, Tasha?" he said, smirking to hide his sudden, visceral urge to strangle her. When had she become a fucking pharmacist?

"No, dumbass, I'm condoning you being able to function instead of writhing in bed, wishing you were dead," she spat back at him.

Well, that was fair. He stood, and took the offered pills, swallowing them with water. Immediately, he felt better. The rage that had been building up inside him vanished, leaving him weak in the knees.

"Sorry, Tasha," he said quietly. Christ, he'd been saying that a lot, lately. He knew she was trying to help. Fuck, he'd _asked _her to help. Being an asshole wasn't productive. He _knew _that.

She sighed. "It's okay. Look, you need to be distracted. And you need to get out of this room. Why don't you shower?" She paused. "Stark wants to talk to you, and we have some things to discuss, too. Like the vacation you're taking from work."

That was news to him. "Vacation?"

"Just shower, Barton. I'll explain it after."

* * *

Tony and Natasha had spent most of the morning researching amphetamine withdrawal. They were able to get a pretty good idea of what they could expect.

"Anxiety, mood swings, insomnia, paranoia, hallucinations? Jesus Fucking Christ!" Tony exclaimed. "Your boyfriend picked a stellar drug, Romanoff."

Natasha rolled her eyes. Tony continued, "And what about the Valium?"

"What about it?"

"Is he going to go into withdrawal from that, too? 'Cause that's got its own fucking problems."

She considered. "I don't _think _so. As far as I could tell, he was only taking it a couple of times a week to sleep. He could, though. I don't know. We haven't really talked about it." After a moment, she added, "I think our main focus should be the amphetamines."

Tony nodded. "Which is going to be pretty fucking awful on its own."

Natasha walked over to where she'd hung her jacket, and pulled out the pill bottles she'd stashed there earlier. "Well, we can wean him off. It doesn't have to be cold turkey. That should help, at least a little."

Tony looked unsure, but said, "If you think so."

"I do." She wasn't going to make Clint suffer more than he had to. Even if a _tiny _part of her thought he deserved it. Okay, maybe even a little more than a tiny part.

"I think," Tony said, slowly, "We should get Bruce in on this. And we're going to have to tell Steve, too."

"What? Why?"

"Come on, Romanoff. If Barton's going to stay here for more than a day or two, Steve is going to notice something's up with him. Bruce already knows, and he's a fucking genius, so he'll probably be able to help. It's what geniuses _do_."

Natasha didn't really approve, but said, "Whatever. I need to call SHIELD. Tell them Clint's going on vacation or something. They're going to wonder where the fuck he is. Where the fuck we both are, actually."

As it turned out, arranging a two-week vacation from SHIELD was easier than Natasha had imagined it would be. The only thing SHIELD was really working on at the moment was Thompson, and that was all lab work for now.

"Sure, Romanoff," Fury had said, his voice oozing sarcasm. "You take Barton and go to whatever romantic little corner of the world you've picked out. Don't get into any fucking trouble and don't cause a fucking international incident like you did _last _time you went on vacation."

Why did everyone think she and Barton were sleeping together? Whatever. As long as it worked, she wasn't going to correct him.

The pair continued their research, huddled over Tony's laptop in the kitchen, for the rest of the day. Bruce and Steve wandered through occasionally, shooting them odd looks, but they didn't say anything.

It was just before 8:00 PM when JARVIS announced, "Mr. Barton has awakened."

"I'll get Bruce and Steve," Tony said, getting to his feet.

Natasha nodded, and watched him leave. Then, she armed herself with the blandest, easiest to digest dinner she could find. If this was anything like last time, Clint was going to be starving.

When she emerged from Clint's room ten minutes later, having sent him to shower, Tony, Steve, and Bruce were gathered around the island in the kitchen. They were each engaged in what looked like an intense staring contest with the counter top.

"What have you told them?" Natasha asked Tony.

"Nothing. Thought I'd wait for you."

Well, wasn't that considerate. Not.

"Okay," she said. "Here's the deal." And then she hesitated, because damn, wasn't this awkward?

"Clint and I are going to be staying here for awhile. Two weeks, at least." She paused again.

Bruce already looked like he knew where this was going. Steve, for his part, looked concerned, if only because of the artless, halting way Natasha was delivering her speech.

Tony was shooting Natasha a look that clearly said, 'What's your problem?' She'd never been one to mince words, and it was pretty fucking inconvenient for her to start now.

"What Romanoff is trying to say," Tony said, in the flippant way he adopted whenever he needed to say something hard, "is that Barton's gone and gotten himself addicted to drugs, and now he's trying to quit. And it's going to be pretty fucking ugly."

Natasha didn't know if she should be relieved that he'd gotten it out in the open, or should slap him for being tactless and blunt. She opted for a glare.

"Drugs?" Steve asked, slowly. "But Agent Barton wouldn't do that. He's not stupid."

"No, Rogers, he's not!" Natasha snapped. She didn't know how much Clint would want her to say, but her teammate was apparently operating under some pretty fucking stupid conceptions that she had to dispel, _now_. "After Loki...used him...he's afraid of losing control. Afraid of what he might do if he isn't always aware, doesn't always know exactly what he's doing. He's afraid of _sleeping_, Rogers, it terrifies him, and so he decided he wasn't going to anymore. That's not stupid, it's desperate."

"But-"

"No buts, Rogers," she cut him off. "If you're not going to be helpful, then you can stay the fuck out of this. Stark thought you needed to know what was going on. Now you do."

Steve made a move like he was going to stand, but instead just re-adjusted how he was sitting. "I didn't say I wouldn't help," he said, carefully. "I just...this is..."

"Hard," Bruce supplied.

"You're telling me," Clint said, from the doorway.

* * *

While he was in the shower, the headache that had momentarily faded sprung back into life. Some small, logical part of his mind was prattling on about the difference between physical and psychological dependence. How he'd felt better earlier just from _seeing _his pills, but how now his nerves were screaming that it just wasn't enough.

That part of his mind, he decided, could fuck right off.

With great resentment, he toweled off and dressed himself. Well, as much as sweats and a t-shirt could be considered "dressed." He tried to ignore the pain in his head, but it was _really _fucking annoying, and he was starting to notice that it seemed to be creeping down his neck and into his shoulders. Perfect.

He left his room, heading stiffly towards the kitchen. He stopped outside the door, listening to the conversation occurring within. Great, they were talking about him. Well, that sounded like a good time. He thought he'd join in.

Steve said, "I just...this is..."

Bruce finished for him. "Hard."

"You're telling me," Clint said, stepping into the doorway.

To their credit, none of them jumped or looked particularly surprised. Tony just greeted him with a lazy, "Morning, Barton. Well. Evening, Barton."

Clint glared.

"Why don't you sit down?" Steve asked, offering his own seat.

"Think I'm going to pass, thanks," Clint said. He stalked through the kitchen.

"Wait, Clint," Natasha said. "We need to talk."

"Looks like you've got that under control without me!" he called, over his shoulder. A moment later, the TV blared to life, rather louder than it probably needed to be.

"He doesn't seem...so bad," Bruce said, quietly.

"I...We're trying to wean him off slowly," Natasha said.

"Wait," Steve interrupted. "He's still using drugs?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, Rogers. Fewer. Stopping altogether would be awful. It's probably going to be awful anyway."

Clearly, Steve didn't approve. Natasha tried to cut him some slack, what with his 1940s moral compass, but she couldn't resist adding, "Remember, if you're not helpful, you're out."

He tried to wrap his head around this, and then sighed. "I'm in. Okay? I'm in."

* * *

As soon as Clint sat down in front of the television, he began to come undone.

It was a slow process, though. It took most of the night.

At first, it was hard to think around the pain in his head. And shoulders. And arms. He knew that if he could just have one or two more pills, he would feel better. Maybe he could bargain with Natasha, explain how much this fucking _hurt_, and she'd see things his way. One more pill wasn't too much to ask. It was still cutting down. Just one more.

The look she had given him when he asked had just about killed him.

"No, Clint. Half life of amphetamine is ten hours. I'll give it to you then."

He had thrown himself back into his chair, furious. At her. At himself.

He remained there, largely unmoving, for hours.

Until, unbidden, the thought _What if you fall asleep, Barton _slid oily and insidiously across his mind.

Oh God. What if?

_Don't be ridiculous_, he thought, unaware he was engaging in an argument with himself. _You just woke up, and you're still on drugs, dumbass. Yeah, it's less but you're still on fucking speed_.

_It's not enough. You know that. _ He began to nervously tap his foot. It was true, it _wasn't _enough. His current state of misery attested to that.

_I'm not tired. It's fine._

_You're not tired, yet. You will be. Then what?_

That was a good question. Tasha had said ten hours. That was a long time. _Only eight hours now, though_. Yeah, that was a lot fucking better.

His nervous tapping became more pronounced, and he began to fidget.

More time passed. Clint's anxiety continued to climb, along with the aches in his head and muscles. He stood, and went to the kitchen for a drink. He returned and sat down. And noticed Steve was staring at him.

Steve had decided to watch television with Clint, feeling something akin to guilt about his earlier words. Bruce had dragged Tony downstairs to go through some boxes from SHIELD. Natasha, exhausted, had called it a night, after she made Steve swear to come get her in exactly nine hours OR if anything happened and he needed her. So he sat, ostensibly watching television, actually watching Clint.

_What the fuck is he staring at_? Clint wondered.

_He thinks you're pathetic_, he answered himself.

_That's because I _am _pathetic_.

_And dangerous, _his mind supplied. _He knows you'll fucking kill them if you get the chance_.

_That's not true_, he thought.

_Like you even know what you would do, if you gave yourself the chance. Monster_.

His anxiety spiked. He jumped to his feet. "I need some air," he said.

Steve knew he couldn't let the marksman go alone. "Want to go downstairs?"

Clint considered. No, that's not what he needed. He needed... "The roof. I want to go to the roof."

Steve shrugged. "Sure. Let me grab my shoes."

_He doesn't trust you, Barton_, Clint thought. _He thinks you need to be watched_. _He thinks you're going to kill him._

That didn't even make _sense_. Clint shook his head, trying to clear it. Out loud he said, "Yeah, sure, meet you up there."

He took the elevator as high as it could go, then climbed the remaining stairs two and three at a time. He burst into the cool night air and breathed a sigh.

He headed over to his favorite perch, at the northeastern corner of the building.

Behind him, the door to the roof opened, and Steve stepped outside. He kept his distance, though, allowing Clint some space.

_Doesn't want to get too close_, Clint thought. _That's smart. He knows what you are. Pathetic. Worthless. Dangerous... _

The anxiety from which he'd been trying to escape rushed back into him so suddenly it took his breath away.

Heart pounding, he tried to get control of his breathing, to no avail.

_Wow, Barton, this is great. Just think, you can spend the rest of your life this way. Scared. Pathetic. You're pathetic, you know, and you always will be, nothing's ever going to change. No one will ever trust you again, not really. You can't do your job. You can't even _sleep_ without freaking the fuck out. Natasha hates you, and she _should _since you're so _weak_ and you tried to _**kill her**_. _

True, it was all true. God, what the fuck was he supposed to _do_?

He hadn't even noticed that he'd begun pacing back and forth, quickly, frantically. Steve did, though, and began slowly making his way over from the opposite side of the roof. Even from a distance, in the semi-dark, he could see that Clint didn't look good.

Suddenly, Clint stopped. The solution to the problem—oh, it was so_ obvious_—had crashed over him, freezing him in place.

_There's something you can do, Barton. Remove the danger. They'll all be safer. It'll be better. _Everything_ will be better._

_End it._

Jump.

* * *

When Clint stopped pacing, Steve had slowed his approach. But then, Clint had turned abruptly and pulled himself up onto the ledge of the roof.

That wasn't good.

Steve broke into a run.

Clint wasn't too steady on his feet, and getting onto the ledge seemed to take a lot out of him. He sat, gasping, one leg on either side, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. He swung his other leg over, so that he was sitting fully on the ledge. He swayed slightly, back and forth.

Steve, panicked and not caring too much about being gentle at the moment, grabbed the back of Clint's t-shirt and yanked him backwards as hard as he could. Clint flew into his chest, knocking them both over. They rolled.

Clint, surprised, took a swing at him, but Steve dodged it easily. Clint wasn't in top form right now, and Steve was a super solider. They rolled again, and Steve pinned Clint down on his stomach, with his arms behind him.

Clint went limp.

"What are you _doing_!" Steve yelled, terror and adrenaline raising his voice by almost an octave.

Clint struggled to roll over, but Steve held him down. He had no intention of letting the assassin move.

"I...can't...breathe," Clint choked out after a moment.

Steve rolled off him, and Clint sat up. Steve was alarmed to see that it didn't alleviate his breathing difficulties.

He reached out a hand and awkwardly placed it on Clint's shoulder, attempting to comfort him, or maybe just reassure himself that the other man was _here_.

But Clint jerked away. "Don't touch me!" he barked. He drew his knees up to his chest, resting his head on his folded arms. He closed his eyes with a sigh. Steve could see he was trembling, his muscles taut and strained.

"_Fuck_," Clint muttered, a moment later, massaging his aching head with an unsteady hand.

With his eyes fixed firmly on Clint, ready to tackle him again if he had to, Steve pulled out his cell phone.

He figured Natasha would classify this as "something happening," and he _definitely _needed her.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who's reading and leaving feedback.

Please review. They are beacons of hope as I wearily march the empty, gray road that is my life.


	9. The Longest Night

Warnings: language, mention of drug use, mention of attempted suicide.

Thanks to my beta, irite, for being generally awesome. Also for being awesome in specific ways that I am too tired to enumerate.

I do not own the Avengers. Good lord, imagine what it would have been like if I did.

* * *

When Natasha made it to the roof, all but sprinting through the door, the scene had not changed much.

Clint was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them. Though he was facing her, he didn't acknowledge her approach and refused to meet her eyes.

Steve stood stiffly to one side, his hands shoved in his pockets, warily watching the man seated on the ground.

"Steve," Natasha greeted him.

He turned towards her voice, relief evident on his face. "Do you want me to go? Or...?" he asked softly, as if he were afraid to speak more loudly.

She considered. "No, stay. Please. Help me get him downstairs."

Natasha walked over to Clint and gently placed her fingertips on his shoulder. She could feel the strain there, how he was practically thrumming with the tension in the muscles of his back and arms.

He flinched away from her touch. "Don't."

She sighed, but removed her hand. "Can you stand?" She couldn't think of a reason why he might not be able to, but she didn't quite know what else to say.

He lifted his eyes to meet hers, looking momentarily as if her request had been made in a foreign language, one he didn't speak. Then, as he became more aware, he nodded and slowly unwrapped his arms from around his knees.

Steve offered him a hand up, but Clint steadfastly ignored it. Instead, he heaved himself awkwardly to his feet and stretched in a vain attempt to relieve the awful tightness in his muscles. Without glancing behind him, he walked towards the door, stiff, almost shuffling.

Steve battled the nearly overpowering urge to pick him up and carry him.

Somehow, they made it back downstairs. It had seemed iffy for awhile. At one point, Clint had swayed dangerously on the stairs before leaning heavily against the wall, breathing hard.

Natasha motioned for Steve to halt.

"You okay, Clint?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied quickly, if a little breathlessly. "Just…really _tired_. And dizzy. Sudden, that's all."

"Want me to carry you?" Steve asked, half-joking, not really sure what he'd do if the marksman said 'yes.'

Clint managed a decent glare. "No. Thanks."

Relieved, Steve said, "All right. Are you…going to move?"

"Eventually."

And, eventually, he did. They made it to the elevator.

Back in the Avengers' quarters, Natasha realized that she had been operating largely on autopilot for the last half an hour. Now, Clint was slumped on the couch with his head in his hands, massaging his temples, and she had a moment to reflect on exactly how out of her comfort zone she was.

Sure, she had read that suicide was a risk during withdrawal. But she hadn't really thought about it. It had seemed so foreign, so completely out of the realm of possibility, that she hadn't even considered it. And now it filled the room, diffused to every corner, choking her.

"What were you _thinking_?" she asked abruptly, her voice harsh in the silence.

Clint apparently wasn't listening. "...What?"

That pissed her off. "What. The. Hell. Were. You. Thinking?"

"I..." Wasn't, he was going to say, but that wasn't true. Sure, he hadn't been thinking clearly (_you're still not Barton, don't lie to yourself_) but there _had _been a lot of thought involved. So, instead he said quietly, "I told you I couldn't do this."

Natasha looked dumbfounded. "Bullshit, Barton. You're not just going to…quit. What the hell?"

"Tasha…" he started, but she wasn't done yet.

"What, you thought you'd just take the easy way out? Fuck that."

"No, Tasha, I just thought—"

"Oh, so you _were _thinking. That's good to know." Some still-rational part of her mind was telling her that this was not how you were supposed to deal with a suicide attempt. She thought maybe compassion and understanding were usually prescribed as the best responses, not anger. But after the phone call she'd gotten, she thought a little anger was justified.

_"What is it, Rogers?" _she'd answered, exhaustion almost (but not quite) masking the irritation and worry in her voice.

_"Natasha...I think...you need to come here." _Quiet. Hesitant. Completely unlike Steve Rogers.

_"Why? What happened?"_

_"It's...Barton. Clint. We're on the roof. I think...I think he was going to jump. He's okay, I got him, but—"_

She hadn't waited to hear the rest.

For his part, Clint was having a hard time focusing on her words. He got that she was angry, and why, but she just didn't _understand _ how fucking _hard_ this was. How could she? She'd never fucked up this bad. And now she was chastising him for trying to do the right thing, trying to remove the danger, and she just didn't _get _it, she just couldn't _see _how logical it was, how crystal fucking clear...

_That's because it's not logical, Barton, it's fucking crazy. Like you. She thinks you're crazy._

_I'm not crazy, I'm just not...thinking straight. Right? I'm not crazy._

_Then what the fuck is this? You're talking to yourself. You're crazy. And dangerous..._

_I'm not fucking _crazy. _I just need..._

_What? What do you need? Your fucking pills? Yeah, that's worked out really well for you, hasn't it?_

With a small sound of negation, Clint shook his head and wrapped his arms tightly around his chest. He began to fidget, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

Steve had seen this nervousness once already tonight, and he'd seen how it could escalate. "Maybe you should calm down, Clint," he said cautiously.

Natasha noticed the change in his demeanor and immediately stopped her ranting. "Clint?"

"I'm _fine_," he snapped. Christ, when was she going to get off his fucking back?

_You wanted this, Barton, you wanted _her_. It's not her fault you're a fuck-up._

Oh, but it was so easy to blame her, when she was so sanctimonious, tormenting him. If she'd just seen things his way, this could have been avoided. What the hell was wrong with her, anyway? Was she some kind of sadist? Did she like seeing him in pain? Did she like having this much control over him? Fuck, he'd give her control. He'd give her anything, let her _do _anything, if she'd just give him _one _fucking pill.

_Don't. Don't fucking do this. That's not how this is. She is _helping _you, dumbass, not torturing you, now get a fucking _ grip_._

Abruptly, he stood and moved towards the door. He had to get out of there.

But Natasha grabbed his arm. "Where are you going?"

"I need some space." He tried to pull free.

But her grip tightened, until it was hard enough to bruise. "No."

"No? What do you mean, no?" Clint's voice was taking on a panicked, hysterical edge.

"Do you really think you get to be alone right now? You just tried to jump off the roof."

He'd kind of been trying to forget that. "I'm not going to do it _again_." God, why wouldn't she just let him _go_?

Natasha snorted. "Forgive me if I don't just take your word for it."

And now she was laughing at him. Clint grew, if possible, more tense. The throbbing in his head reached a crescendo, and he saw red.

He was hardly aware that he had drawn his fist back to strike before she had him on the floor, both arms pinned behind his back. He had a sudden feeling of déjà vu. _How many times is this going to happen tonight_?

At Clint's movement, Steve had jumped to his feet to help. He quickly found himself at a loss, though, since it was clear Natasha had the situation under control.

Still, he could be useful. "JARVIS," he said, "Could you please send Bruce and Tony up here?"

A little more help couldn't hurt.

* * *

Bruce wondered if chronic insomnia was contagious.

Sure, he hadn't exactly been the best about regular sleep before, but after he started working with Tony, his sleep schedule had become, in a phrase, completely fucked up.

He had only intended to work until maybe eleven o'clock. He had a few test results to check, a few inventory items to mark off, and then he was going to call it a night.

That just wasn't meant to be, apparently.

Somehow, it was after one o'clock in the morning and he was still working. He blamed Tony. The man was a horrible influence. He made it seem so normal, staying in the lab until all hours of the goddamned night. Bruce suspected that Tony was doing it deliberately, peer pressuring him into turning into some kind of insomniac mad scientist.

Bruce hated peer pressure.

On the plus side, he had at least gotten some good news out of his extra work. He hadn't figured out what had been causing Thompson's issues, but he _had_ discovered (through some very 'careful' testing...did Tony even know what safety protocols _were_?) that his body fluids had ceased being flammable after about 24 hours. That meant that, barring a second exposure, Thompson's issues should have been completely alleviated by now.

Bruce wrote those results up added them to the stack of test results and files he was going to send back to SHIELD. He imagined Thompson would be glad to get back to whatever he'd been doing before he'd turned into an unintentional terrorist.

He wasn't done, but he'd made progress, and wasn't that all in a day's work for a biologist slash chemist slash physicist?

With his report done, Bruce looked around, trying to find Tony. He located him a second later, playing with the biohazardous rats.

"Hey!" Bruce yelled. Tony had decided that, to avoid the awkwardness of talking about anything having to do with Clint, the best course of action would apparently be to rupture their eardrums with music. Bruce was struggling to make himself heard over the Led Zeppelin blaring from the incredibly loud and massively expensive speakers.

Of course Tony didn't hear him. Or, equally likely, was ignoring him. Jerk. So Bruce walked over to where the billionaire was sprawled on the floor and gently tapped him in the knee with his foot.

Well, maybe not that gently.

"Ow! Fuck, Banner!" Tony said. At least, that was the movement his lips made.

"I can't hear you, what was that?" Bruce mouthed.

Tony glared at him and snarled "Mute." Then, "What?"

"I think I'm done for the night. We should head upstairs and see if Steve needs anything." _Like a drink_, Bruce thought, even though he knew the supersoldier couldn't get drunk. It was the thought that mattered.

Tony stood, massaging his leg. "Sure. It's been what, an hour?"

"Four, actually."

"Really?" Tony looked at his watch. "Huh. It only felt like one. Time flies when you're having fun, right, science buddy?"

Bruce wondered about Tony's idea of fun. And time. "Uh, sure."

"Mr. Stark, Dr. Banner." Jarvis spoke, saving Bruce from trying to find a tactful way to tell Tony to never, ever call him 'science buddy' again. "Mr. Rogers has requested your presence upstairs in the Avengers' quarters, sirs."

Tony thought JARVIS's message, though lacking any overt signs of trouble, didn't bode well. The look on Bruce's face indicated that he felt the same.

Together, they made a beeline for the elevator.

When they entered the Avengers' living area, they were greeted with the odd sight of Natasha sitting on Clint's back, one knee on either side of him, pinning him to the ground. Her hands were wrapped around Clint's wrists, pressing them into his back.

Tony thought about making some off-color joke about bondage and domination, but he still had the bruises from the _last _time he'd had that brilliant idea. He wasn't a masochist. So he settled for an innocuous, "Well, this is interesting."

"We need to set up shifts," Natasha said calmly, as if she wasn't currently bodily restraining Clint from doing...what, exactly?

"You gonna get off of Barton, or just stay there? Cause it doesn't look comfortable," Tony said. "For him, anyway. I mean, if you want to stay there, that's fine. I don't mind."

Natasha was actually quite reluctant to move. There was something really reassuring about knowing exactly where Clint was. Knowing that he couldn't do anything so _fucking stupid _again. It made her feel like she had some tiny modicum of control over this situation.

Still, she got to her feet. Clint laid on the floor for a moment longer, apparently gathering his thoughts. He then slowly stood and made his way back to his place on the couch. It was starting to feel like home, he thought. At least when he was there no one was tackling him.

_You deserved that. You know you did._

Okay, maybe. Still, it was getting old. And Tasha hadn't exactly been gentle. He could feel bruises forming around his wrists where she'd been holding him. His shoulders had been painful before; now they were approaching excruciating.

_You deserve that, too, Barton. Just man the fuck up and take it_.

Clint smirked to himself. Wouldn't it be nice if it were that easy? _Just _man up. Like he hadn't been fucking trying for months.

"Shifts for what, exactly?" Bruce asked, unaware of Clint's extensive inner dialogue. He watched the marksman rub at the beginnings of a hand-shaped bruise on his arm, just below the sleeve of his t-shirt. What the _hell _had happened?

"One of the potential risks of amphetamine withdrawal is suicide," Natasha told them, blunt and to the point. She was done dancing around. "We're not leaving him alone."

"Yeah, I read that," said Tony. "But don't you think you're being a little pre-emptive? It's not like that's really common or anything. It's kind of the worst-case scenario."

Natasha and Steve looked at him in awful, heavy silence. Clint, the worst-case scenario, looked resolutely at his lap.

_Oh_.

"He didn't," Tony whispered.

"I'm right here, Stark. And it's not a big deal," Clint muttered, speaking mostly to the couch cushion next to him.

There was a long pause. "He...did?" Tony asked, uncertain.

Bruce felt the blood drain from his face. "How?"

"Roof," Natasha said. "Half an hour ago."

Tony and Bruce took that in. When he'd remembered how to speak, Tony offered, "Well, you said this could get ugly. I'll take the first shift."

* * *

Once upon a time, Clint reflected, he probably would have been pissed to have his business all out in the open like this. He was private by nature. Always had been.

Really, that had been part of the problem. It was at his core to deal with things, like paralyzing anxiety and ridiculous phobias, alone. Asking for help was weak. Needing help at all was bad enough, but _asking _was just pathetic.

At this point, though, he was beyond caring. He was too miserable to notice that he was the object of careful scrutiny, too out of it to really register the four pairs of concerned eyes focused on his slumped and fidgeting form. They could talk about him all day and all night if it suited them. Their words barely brushed against his consciousness, completely unable to penetrate the fog of need and pain that enveloped his mind.

As it was, he could only focus on what was really, truly important.

It was now only four hours until Natasha had promised to give him his pills.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who's sticking with this!

Please review. Feedback brightens my life.


	10. Misplaced

Warnings: language, drug use, mention of attempted suicide.

Thanks to my beta, irite, for reminding me that people tend to eat their cereal with milk, and for other general awesomeness.

I do not own the Avengers.

* * *

Slowly, the group dispersed towards their beds. Bruce went first, muttering something about having an early morning. Steve left next. Natasha was last, and it was only with great reluctance and ten minutes worth of reassurances from Tony (though neither would admit that's what it had been) that she made her way back to her room.

Before she left, she quietly slipped Tony a pair of pills and said, her voice low (but not low enough—Clint heard every word), "Give these to him at exactly 6 AM. Not one _minute _earlier, for _any _reason. Got it?"

Tony nodded.

So, within half an hour, Tony and Clint were alone, sitting at opposite ends of the couch, pointedly staring at a blank television screen instead of each other.

Tony had no idea what he should be doing. He considered asking JARVIS for input, but then figured that might be insensitive, what with Clint sitting right next to him and all. Congratulating himself on his tact, he instead asked, "You tired?"

"No."

Well, Tony could have predicted that. But a guy could hope. Out of curiosity, though, "Would it really matter if you were?"

"...No."

Tony finally shot a quick glance at Clint. He was sitting stiffly yet slumped over, a juxtaposition of postures that should not have been possible and looked remarkably uncomfortable. The marksman was rubbing small circles above his right eyebrow with one hand and was slowly clenching and unclenching the other, his fingernails leaving deep crescent moon indentations in his palm. Otherwise, though, he was motionless, a sudden and unexpected study in fatigue.

"Headache, Barton?" Tony asked, never one to give up an opportunity to point out the obvious.

The glare Clint shot at Tony was venomous, but he didn't say anything.

Tony knew he should probably stop prodding. But he had some kind of pathological aversion to silence that often manifested itself as inane rambling. Instead of lapsing into awkward silence, he lapsed into awkward conversation. "So, you're not going to try and off yourself again, right? Romanoff would kill me if I let you die."

"I'm not planning on it," Clint replied, his words clipped, his whole demeanor screaming how badly he wished the billionaire would just stop talking. "You don't have to do this, you know. Go to bed or something. Whatever it is you do all night."

"I didn't really get the impression you'd been planning it before. Kinda thought it was a spur of the moment thing." Tony said, ignoring both Clint's obvious irritation and the second half of his statement.

"Yeah. It was."

"Then it's not really comforting that you're not planning on it. Sudden bad decisions happen all the time. Fuck, I know all about that. Sorry, Barton, you're stuck with me 'til six o'clock, at least."

Clint marveled momentarily how the entirety of his existence seemed to come to a focal point at six o'clock. What happened afterwards was irrelevant. Getting there was all that mattered.

He gritted his teeth, attempting to resist the urge to check his watch for the 6th time in 34 minutes. He failed.

Tony decided it was time for a distraction. "You hungry?"

"No," Clint answered automatically. Then, the billionaire's question actually registered in his mind. "Wait. Yeah."

"Great. You want Lucky Charms?"

Clint nodded. He did want Lucky Charms. Desperately.

As Tony poured out two bowls, Clint tapped his fingers impatiently on the countertop. He tried to ignore the thoughts that, even in his current state, he could pinpoint as completely irrational. For example, he doubted very much that Tony was trying to poison him, despite how loudly that particular idea was banging against the inside of his skull.

With most of his efforts aimed at suppressing that background noise, he found it harder to ignore the idea that Tony was deliberately screwing him out of the marshmallows. "The fuck, Stark? You hoarding the fucking marshmallows?"

Actually, Tony had been. Caught in the act, he quickly shook a few more out of the box and into Clint's bowl. "Better?"

Clint nodded. Tony added some milk to both bowls, and then held one out to Clint. He took the offered bowl silently, and stared into it, clearly torn for some reason about eating the cereal.

Joking, Tony said, "It's not poisoned, Barton. At least not any more than anything else containing this much high fructose corn syrup."

The intense way Clint had looked up at him at that comment, and the calculating look that had followed, had been surprising. _Damn_, Tony thought. _Did he really think I was going to _poison _him_?

Tony realized then that he had no idea what kind of shit was currently flying around in Clint's mind. Outwardly, the marksman looked more-or-less composed. There were no overt signs of anything amiss. He was just sitting there and quietly examining his Lucky Charms, looking exhausted and honestly, ill.

But apparently he'd been worried that Tony was going to poison him. What else was he thinking?

Vowing to be more vigilant (because as much as he joked about Romanoff killing him if he let Clint come to any harm, he was terrified that something was going to happen), Tony settled in to watch his charge. And he silently added 'paranoia' to the ever-growing list of withdrawal-related issues he'd been compiling.

After several seconds, Clint noticed Tony's careful attention.

"You must really think I'm pathetic," he mused aloud, tapping his spoon erratically against the edge of his bowl. He still hadn't taken a bite.

"You're not the first person to be wary of my cooking, Barton," Tony said, joking, trying to turn the conversation down a different path.

It wasn't to be, though. "I mean, what do you think I'm going to do?" Clint continued, as if Tony had not spoken at all. "Choke myself with a spoon? Cut my wrists with a carving knife?"

He began tapping his spoon on the counter, alternating between that and the edge of the bowl. Combined with the way he was kicking his feet against the legs of the stool, Tony thought he was well on his way to becoming the drummer for some crappy indie band.

Tony wondered briefly if the constant mood swings between exhaustion and agitation were as draining to experience as they were to watch.

"I don't think you're going to do anything," Tony said, cautiously. "We went over this, right?"

"Right. So then what the _fuck _are you staring at?" _ Jesus Christ,_ _calm down, Barton, don't do this._

_Do what? He's the one who's staring. Laughing. He's on some power trip 'cause Tasha gave him your pills. He wants you to beg. _Rage boiled up within him, so hot and unexpected that it nearly took his breath away.

But it was extinguished, completely vanished with his next thought. _What the fuck? That's...crazy. He's not even laughing. He looks...worried._

_He should be worried. You're dangerous._

_No. No, I'm not. Stop _saying _that._

_You're the one saying it, psycho. And you are. You're weak, Barton. So willing to be controlled. If it's not Loki, it's these fucking pills. What would you do for _one _pill, right now?_

Like it had been waiting for an invitation, his mind vomited up a variety of scenarios; bright, vibrant, violent, bloody. Nausea rolled in his stomach, and he shut his eyes against the awful creativity of his own sickened, drug-deprived psyche. _What _wouldn't _I do for one pill right now_?

Through all of that, Tony just sat there, silently. He wasn't sure what to say that would defuse the situation and what would get him punched in the face again. So he waited and watched the different emotions flit across Clint's face. The assassin had once been able to carefully school his expression, but that ability had apparently been stripped from him, lost somewhere between his crushing anxiety and his shrieking nerves.

First, Tony saw, came anger. Then confusion. That was followed by a small shake of the head—denial, maybe? Last was longing. Pure, unadulterated, and visceral.

Of them all, that had been the hardest to watch.

After a moment, Clint shook his head again and muttered, "Pathetic."

It seemed _this _particular episode was ending.

Tony said, "I don't think you're pathetic, Barton. No one does."

With a self-deprecating chuckle, Clint replied, "I don't see how you don't. Think that, I mean." His mind was telling him to shut up, to stop talking, but listening to himself had really done a fat lot of fucking good lately. So he ignored that impulse and continued, "I'm afraid to go to sleep. I managed to become addicted to drugs despite knowing _exactly_how fucking stupid that is. And I didn't even make it through 36 hours of withdrawal before I tried to kill myself. Less than two days, Stark. And I was asleep for most of that. If that's not pathetic, I don't know what is."

Tony gave him a long look. When he spoke again, it was in a tone that Clint had never heard him use before. "When I got back from Afghanistan...I couldn't handle water. 'Cause of, uh..." he trailed off, unsure if he really wanted to continue.

"Waterboarding," Clint supplied. He'd read the file.

Oh, fuck it, Tony thought, he'd gotten this far. He nodded. "Yeah, that. So baths and swimming pools were completely out. I couldn't even take a shower without having a panic attack. So you know what I did?"

Clint shook his head.

Tony smirked. "I started drinking. More, I mean. I already drank a lot before. But the only way I could get in the fucking shower in the morning was if I'd had a drink or two first. Or three. Or four. Sometimes I was completely fucking wasted before I got out of bed. Because I was afraid I was going to drown _in the fucking shower_. I knew it was completely illogical, irrational, but I still couldn't do it." He paused. "If that's not pathetic," he echoed Clint's words, looking the marksman in the eye, "I don't know what is."

Clint narrowed his eyes. "Is this supposed to make me feel better? What's your point? That other people have stupid, irrational fears, too?"

"No. My point is, you chose a bad way to deal with the fucked up shit in your head. But you're not the first person who's made that bad choice. It's not the end of the world."

"And maybe you think you've fucked up worse than anyone else," Tony went on, seeing he had Clint's attention, "But that's not true. We've all fucked up. There are people who've done things that make your mistakes look like fucking nothing. At least you're trying, right? That alone shows you deserve another chance."

Clearly, Clint disagreed. "I'm out of chances, Stark. They gave me my last one after I aided a megalomaniac in his bid for world domination. After I tried to kill my boss, my partner, and my team."

Tony thought he should point out that Clint hadn't actually done any of those things freely, that he carried no blame for what he had done under Loki's control. But that was a project for another night, something Romanoff and he would have to tackle together (did she know how deeply this guilt had wormed its way into her partner's mind? Into his very being? She had to. How could she not?). So instead, he just said, "Barton, you're not out of chances until every last person on the fucking planet has given up on you. And you're not there yet. You're not even _close_."

* * *

The way Clint checked his watch every four minutes made Tony painfully aware of the passing time. Still, the pair got on amicably, if more-or-less silently, for the next three hours.

By 5:47, though, Tony was about as anxious to give Clint his pills as Clint was to receive them. The assassin had begun checking his watch every two minutes, and he used the breaks in between to stare at Tony. Not in a particularly menacing or disturbing way. It was just very intense.

By 5:56, they were both about ready to crack. Clint had begun pacing like a caged tiger, turning violently on his heels at the end of each trek across the room. He was glaring at Tony with increasing hostility.

At 5:59, Tony decided he couldn't stand to watch that awful, frantic pacing anymore, and he didn't really figure Natasha would begrudge him one minute anyway. He reached into his pocket.

"I said six o'clock, Stark, and not a single minute earlier," Natasha said coldly from the doorway. "Was I not clear enough for you?"

Fuck. Turns out she _would _begrudge him a single minute.

Clint and Tony sent Natasha identical glares. Tony recovered his good will quickly, though. "Morning, Agent Romanoff!" he greeted her with excessive cheer. She rolled her eyes.

Clint was less friendly. "It's one fucking minute, Nat," he snarled. "Thirty seconds, now."

She was unyielding. "Thirty seconds that you're going to have to fucking wait, Barton."

They faced off, stiff and silent. At exactly six o'clock, Natasha said, "All right, Stark."

Tony reached into his pocket and pulled out the pills. He held them out to Clint, who snatched them out of his hand and swallowed them in a heartbeat.

The relief Clint felt was instantaneous and so intense that even the accompanying ache of shame and self-loathing could not diminish it.

Within half a minute, though, the anxiety and pain had begun to set in again.

_Ten more hours,_ he thought to himself.

* * *

Bruce was back in the lab by seven o'clock in the morning. The courier from SHIELD was coming by at eight and he wanted to make sure he had his shit together by then.

He was boxing up the now non-biohazardous rats, and seriously considering releasing them (was SHIELD just going to have them euthanized? Because the poor little guys didn't deserve that) when the lab door slid open and Steve walked in.

Steve was a morning person. And a night owl. One of the changes that the supersoldier serum had wrought on his physique was that he required substantially less sleep than most people. Most nights, he averaged about four hours.

That suited him just fine. He'd had enough sleep to last a lifetime.

So he'd woken up at 6:45. Normally, he would have had breakfast and maybe watched the news, but Natasha and Clint had been sitting in the kitchen, glaring at each other in stormy silence. He hadn't wanted to intrude, so he'd grabbed his coffee and toast...and donuts...and yogurt...to go. He'd been at a loss as to what to do after that, until JARVIS had informed him that Dr. Banner was awake and working downstairs. Steve didn't spend much time in the labs (too much expensive stuff to break, too much technology flying around), but it sure beat the heck out of getting into the middle of whatever was going on with the SHIELD agents.

"Good morning, Steve," Bruce greeted him, trying his best to hide his confusion at the supersoldier's presence.

"Good morning. Don't worry, I won't touch anything," Steve said with a smile.

Bruce chuckled. "I wasn't too worried about that. What's up?"

Steve shrugged, setting his breakfast down. "Natasha and Clint were having a standoff in the kitchen. It seemed pretty intense, so I got out of the way. I'm just...not ready for that yet," he admitted.

"Fair enough. I don't think any of us are, though. So don't feel too bad about it."

Steve stood up and began wandering through the lab, idly looking around. It was easier to talk if he was moving. "Tony and Natasha seem like they're doing okay with it."

Bruce shook his head. "I don't think so. I think they're just as clueless as we are. They'd just never admit it." He bent over to lift a box of records, but then thought better of it and gestured to Steve, "Could you grab this?"

"What? Oh, sure." Steve lifted the box easily. "Where do you want it?"

"Last table by the door. By the stack of folders."

Steve set it down. As he was turning away, he noticed a single sheet of paper sitting on the table a few feet further down, near a filing cabinet. It was labeled, 'Barton, Clint.' He picked it up and walked back towards Bruce. "What's this?"

"What's what?" Steve handed him the paper. "Oh, this. It's the results of the blood test I ran on Clint a few days ago. Stick it back over there, would you? I'll file it later."

"Sure."

After that, Bruce finished getting organized, and Steve finished his breakfast.

It was almost eight o'clock when they heard something that sounded suspiciously like an explosion from the next lab.

"What the...it's too early for Tony to be up," Bruce said. "Especially if he went to bed at 6."

Steve nodded. "Think we should check it out?"

Bruce looked momentarily indecisive. "It's probably nothing. Things explode around here all the time. But...if we have to evacuate the building, it's probably better we do it sooner rather than later."

The pair headed for the door.

They bumped into the courier from SHIELD on the way out.

"Oh, hey," Bruce said, distracted. He noticed an odor like burning eggs and diesel exhaust lingering in the air. What the _fuck _had happened? "Everything's ready to go, just, uh, take the stuff on the last table," he gestured vaguely. "If anyone's got any questions, they know how to get in contact."

"Sure, Dr. Banner," the courier said. Steve and Bruce slipped into the lab next door. With a shrug, the courier set about gathering all of the materials onto his cart.

He was just about finished when he noticed a sheet of paper that seemed to have escaped from one of the many folders. He didn't look at it too closely (this stuff was way above his pay grade), just noted that it said, "Barton, Clint" at the top. He knew that Agent Barton had been involved with the Thompson case. So he shoved the document into the top folder. He figured the scientists at SHIELD would know where it was supposed to go.

When Bruce came back ten minutes later, the courier was long gone.

* * *

As it turned out, the unpleasant odor of burning eggs and diesel exhaust _was _actually burning eggs and diesel exhaust.

Tony had not gone to bed after being relieved of his baby sitting duties. He'd had an idea that he wanted to sketch out before he forgot about it. Two hours into his work, he'd decided he was hungry. In his sleep deprived, over-caffeinated state, he'd had the brilliant idea of using an extremely expensive piece of machinery to make fried eggs.

It hadn't worked, of course. The eggs had run everywhere, jamming the machinery. The buildup of pressure had caused it to explode. Nothing that the fire-suppressing robots couldn't handle. Despite that, Bruce was still (irrationally, Tony thought) upset.

"I don't get it, Tony. You had to go to the kitchen to get the eggs. Why the hell didn't you just cook them there?"

"My data was compiling. I didn't want to miss it!" He said that like it was perfectly normal.

Bruce's eyebrows drew together in a half-concerned, half-disturbed look. "I think you should go to bed."

Tony didn't see how that was relevant. When he expressed as much, Bruce replied, "Go to bed, or I will sedate you and Steve will carry you there. I'm already a chemist, a biologist, and a physicist. I might as well become a physician, too."

With an irritated huff (and some confusion—when had Bruce become a biologist? What had he done for his dissertation? Tony needed to _know_), Tony had headed to bed. Or, at least, to his penthouse. Bruce made a note to have JARVIS check to see that the billionaire was actually sleeping in a little while.

Steve had followed Tony upstairs, and so Bruce returned to his lab alone. He was just settling in for a long date with a microscope when something began nagging at him from the back of his mind.

The back of his mind was something he was accustomed to listening to very carefully. So he tuned in.

After a moment, it occurred to him that the table by the door had seemed conspicuously empty. Something was missing. Something should have been there. But what?

He walked over there slowly, thinking. He ran his hand over the bare surface of the table. Still drawing a blank, he sat down on top of one of the filing cabinets to think.

Filing cabinet. Filing. He was supposed to file something. Something that wasn't here.

Oh, _fuck_.

The results from Clint's blood test were missing.

* * *

Please review. They give me the strength to forge on through the vast wasteland of this meaningless existence.


	11. Hypnophobia

Warnings: language, a little bit of blood.

Thanks to irite for the idea that inspired Clint and Steve's little chat, and for helping me with the ending!

I do not own the Avengers.

* * *

Tony's shift now over, Clint and Natasha watched as he headed towards the elevator, presumably en route to bed.

When the doors had closed behind him, Natasha turned and gave Clint a quick once-over. He looked tired—exhausted, actually, the dark rings under his eyes standing out sharply under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. His eyes themselves were fever-bright and almost entirely the black of his pupil, and a faint sheen of sweat coated his brow.

Never one to mince words, Natasha stated flatly, "You look like hell, Barton."

He glared at her. Then, with a small shake of his head, he brushed past her into the lounge. He threw himself into what he was coming to call "his" spot on the couch, and flipped the TV on.

Well, all right then. That was fine. Kind of rude, but fine.

Natasha let him sit there for exactly thirty-four minutes. She perched on a barstool in the kitchen, positioned so that she could clearly see into the living room (she wasn't taking any chances), and took the time to have breakfast and catch up on the news. Then, when she had finished her coffee and whole-wheat bagel (passing on the Lucky Charms—that shit could kill you), she walked back into the living room and stood directly in front of the television.

He was not actually watching whatever was on the screen, as evinced by his complete lack of reaction to having his view suddenly blocked.

"Clint?"

He jumped then, startled, eyes flying up to meet hers. "What?"

She was seized suddenly with the almost irresistible urge to scream, cry, or break something. That _Clint Barton_ had not even noticed her approach, had not even been aware of her presence until she was practically sitting in his lap, was truly telling. Disheartening, maybe, or horrifying. 'Hawkeye' was _never _surprised. His immense skill set, his years of training, guaranteed it.

Natasha knew it was the damn drugs, that once he was clean he'd be back to normal (at least, she hoped to God that was the case), but she was still filled suddenly with rage at that sonofabitch demigod who had taken so much from them. Who was still fucking with them, still taking from them, months after he was gone.

Wherever that bastard was, she hoped he was suffering.

Pushing the rising tide of emotion back down (_now's not the time, Romanoff_), she ordered him, "Get up, Barton. You need to shower. And shave."

"Why?"

"The usual reasons. For one, you're starting to reek."

"What? Bullshit, it's only been...eleven hours since I showered—"

"And you've been sweating the whole time," she cut him off.

He had to concede that point.

Continuing as if he hadn't interrupted, she went on, "Second, the unshaven-hobo look doesn't work for you. And finally, I'm not going out in public with you looking like that."

Now he seemed a little more animated, his indifference morphing into faintly hostile resentment. Natasha didn't know if that was an improvement.

"In public?" he said, disbelieving. "I can't go out, Tasha-"

"Why not? You're on 'vacation', you're not a prisoner here. You need to be distracted. Unless you don't feel up to it?" she added. Because, upon closer inspection, he really did not look well. Maybe letting him rest wouldn't be such a bad idea, after all...

But with an unexpected amount of energy (though it perhaps shouldn't have been unexpected, she thought, not really), he stood. "I'm fine." _Except for that_, he thought as dizziness washed over him.

Natasha decided not to point out how weakly that particular lie came across when he was swaying in place on the verge of falling over.

Clint took a moment to regain his equilibrium. Then he huffed, "I'll be back." He headed towards his room.

Twelve steps later, in the middle of the kitchen, he became aware that Natasha was following him. He stopped.

"Where are you going?"

Sounding only a little bit like she thought he was an idiot (_Am I imagining that?_), she said, "I'm your shadow for the next four or five hours, Clint. Remember?"

Well, of course he fucking did. He hadn't turned into an idiot overnight. But, "I didn't realize that entailed following me into the _shower_."

Annoyingly calm and rational, she responded, "I'm not going to follow you into the shower." A pause. "I'll wait outside, of course."

He narrowed his eyes. "That's really not necessary. I'm not going to...do anything."

"Don't take this the wrong way, Clint, but I don't trust you right now."

He took it the wrong way.

"Yeah, I bet you fucking don't—" He cut himself off as Steve wandered into the room. The supersoldier cast a wary glance between the two assassins and looked momentarily like he was going to say something. Thinking better of it, apparently, he instead quickly grabbed enough food to feed a small army and hastily beat a path back out of the kitchen.

Clint and Natasha faced off in silence for a few more seconds. Then, Clint's shoulders slumped. He didn't think he was going to win this battle, and honestly he was too fucking sick and tired and sore to put forth any kind of effort to do so. "Fine. Whatever."

It was as humiliating as he had thought it would be. Natasha gave him what privacy she felt she could, as much as she was willing to hazard, and Clint appreciated it. She didn't complain when he stood under the spray for the better part of an hour, and she only checked on him once. Still, it didn't change the fact that the bathroom door was open, or that he knew she was sitting on the bed, carefully listening for the sounds of anything gone amiss.

He thought that maybe the slow death of his dignity might be the hardest part of all of this bear.

Although the angry pain pounding in his head begged to differ.

A bit before eight o'clock, Clint was in the passenger seat of Natasha's car, clean and shaved, sunglasses covering his over-sensitive eyes. He wished desperately that he were almost anywhere else.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Natasha asked him, "Anything you want to do?"

Of _course _there was. But he knew that wasn't going to happen for...exactly eight hours and four minutes. So instead he muttered, "Don't care. Just drive." He slumped bonelessly back against the seat, his fingertips tapping a steady rhythm against his thigh, clearly communicating an inelegant amalgamation of exhaustion and restless misery.

Natasha sighed and threw the car into gear.

* * *

The poor, underpaid lab intern (Jessica Starnes, age 20, got the job through her aunt. Had already decided that this line of work was definitely not for her) who processed Dr. Banner's completed work could not, for the life of her, figure out why some GC-MS printout with Agent Barton's name on it was shoved in with the summary of the Thompson case that Dr. Banner had created for Director Fury. It was the only such document in the file. It didn't even make sense for it to be there, since the director would have no idea what he was looking at.

Hell, _she _had no idea what she was looking at, and she was in her third year at NYU.

So, she spent almost half an hour debating with herself whether she should leave it there or try and figure out where it was actually supposed to go.

In the end, she figured that Dr. Banner was _way _smarter than she was. If he'd put that printout in there, that was probably where it belonged. She opted to leave the folder as it was. She tossed it in with the outgoing mail and promptly forgot about it.

Forty-five minutes later, the phone rang. Her boss grabbed it before she could, so she went back to washing glassware.

"Hey Jess!" Her boss (Dr. John Lucas, biochemist and long time SHIELD lab lackey) called after a few minutes. "Did you send a folder up to Fury's office?"

Trying not to panic (because no one wanted to be on Director Fury's radar, ever) she squeaked, "Um, yeah. From Dr. Banner. It _said _it was for the director!"

Dr. Lucas chuckled, appearing from behind the autoclave. "Don't worry, you didn't cause an international incident, and I don't even think he's going to have you arrested. There was just something strange in the file that he wants me to take a look at. Said he was sending it down. Could you wait for it and bring it to me when it gets here?"

Jessica nodded, relieved. "Sure."

Setting what seemed like it should have been a new record for speed in this bureaucracy, Fury's assistant appeared with the file in under five minutes.

Jessica was rather unsurprised to see that it contained the GC-MS printout.

She walked the folder over to Dr. Lucas, who flipped it open and quickly scanned the page. Then, he took his glasses out of his lab coat pocket and scanned it again. For several moments after that, he stared at it very intently.

"...I'll be right back," he announced finally, before turning abruptly and leaving the lab.

Halfway to the director's office, it occurred to him that he should have called—Fury was a busy man, the chances of him being in his office were pretty low.

Actually, the chances of him being in his office were zero, because there he was, ducking into a conference room.

"Director!" he called out. "I need a minute."

Fury raised his eyebrow. "Dr. Lucas. I'm about to begin a meeting..."

"This will only take a second. I looked at the document you sent down."

"...And?"

"It's a printout from a GC-MS. Er, a gas chromatograph-mass spectrometer. They're used to separate and identify different components present in a sample. Of blood, or urine, or just about anything, really."

"And?" Fury asked again, much less patient this time.

Time to get to the point, apparently. "The sample Dr. Banner was running contained both amphetamine and diazepam."

Dr. Lucas had been expecting Fury to be shocked or dismayed, or to show any reaction at all. He was sadly disappointed. Instead, Fury asked, "The sample came from Agent Barton, correct?"

"I assume so, unless Banner's got some really esoteric labeling system."

"Right. So, you're saying that one of my agents is abusing illegal substances."

"Not necessarily," Dr. Lucas said. Scientists didn't like to jump to conclusions. "There's a number of other explanations. They could be prescriptions, or-"

"Cut the shit, Lucas."

Having worked around the director for so long, Dr. Lucas didn't take his profanity personally. Compared to some of the things the director had come out with, that was downright tame. Still, Lucas said, "Sorry, sir. Yes, there is a definite possibility that Agent Barton has been using drugs."

Fury nodded, brisk and efficient. "Thank you for your help. I think it goes without saying that you should mention this to no one."

That had seemed just a touch threatening. "Uh, sure. Of course, sir." Shaking his head, Dr. Lucas walked back towards the lab.

The director slipped into the conference room for his meeting.

It lasted until almost five o'clock.

* * *

Natasha and Clint drove around for the better part of four hours, first weaving through the city, and eventually heading towards the open country. The entire affair was conducted largely without speaking—every time Natasha tried to start a conversation, Clint had turned the radio up. It wasn't exactly subtle. Of course, after three seconds, he'd turn it down again, or fiddle with the air conditioning, the balance of the speakers, the level of the bass. The radio station. The direction the vents were facing. The windows. The angle his seat was reclining at.

It was _really _annoying.

But she persevered. Once he was out, he'd seemed reluctant to go back to the Tower at all, and though he was clearly uncomfortable (a fact spoken by the stiff set of his shoulders, the faint shaking in his hands as he rubbed at his eyes and forehead) he insisted that he was fine and that she should keep driving.

Now, though, she was heading back. And she'd be damned if she was going to concede total defeat and let him deflect her entirely. She waited for a moment where his nervous energy seemed to have been conquered briefly by crushing fatigue. Then, "Clint."

And her efforts were rewarded. Instead of leaning forward to adjust the radio to drown her out, he just turned his head so he was pointedly looking out the window.

Well, she could work with that.

"I think you should try to sleep tonight."

There was no reply, but his expression altered slightly, settling into something between irritation and 'you've-got-to-be-fucking-joking.'

"You need to try and get back into a regular sleep schedule," she continued, when it became clear he was not going to respond.

He ground his teeth together. Sure, it was easy for her to talk about things like "regular sleep schedules," when she could, you know, actually motherfucking sleep. No panic or terror. She was without the decimating certainty that the loss of control could only end in disaster. She was without the anger that was suffocating him-anger at his body for needing something so weak, at himself for being fucking crazy, at Loki for doing this to him.

No, sleep was, to Natasha, still something normal, something natural, something innate. For her, it had not been transformed into slow torture.

For him, though, it was not just a path that led to nightmares, but a nightmare itself.

So he thought if she uttered the phrase "regular sleep schedule" again, he might strangle her.

Ignorant of his inner conflict, she went on, "And I was thinking the best way to get back on a regular sleep schedule would be to cut down your afternoon dose to one pill instead of two."

When his fist slammed into the dashboard, he could not tell which of them was more surprised.

"Fuck," he muttered, pain radiating from his knuckles to his wrist. He slowly unclenched his hand, listening for the tell-tale _crunch _of broken bones. It was absent. But one of the healing cuts on his hand had reopened, and a small stream of blood ran down the back of his hand. Dazed, he watched as it wound a slowly curving path around his palm and began dripping down onto his leg.

"Christ, Barton," Natasha breathed, stunned by how fast his demeanor had changed, how fast he had acted. Watching him as closely as she could while still driving, she asked him, "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer. How could he, without sounding completely insane?

Natasha could feel a headache of her own coming on. She made a mental note about the wisdom of talking about further reducing Clint's amphetamine intake. Apparently, it hadn't been the best idea she'd ever had.

A few minutes later, she was pulling into the underground parking garage at Stark Tower. The elevator ride back up to the Avengers' floor was silent.

Steve was sitting in the kitchen, working his way through a lunch of epic proportions. He nodded a greeting at the assassins, his mouth too full to talk.

"Rogers," Natasha greeted him. "You ready to take your shift?"

He swallowed. "What? Yeah, I guess?" He was a little surprised by the blunt way she had asked, as if Barton wasn't standing _right there_.

"Good." She stalked back to the elevator. She needed a break. And to re-adjust all of the settings in her car. Every. Single. One.

Steve and Clint both wondered what Clint had done to piss her off.

When she had disappeared around the corner, Steve gestured at the mountain of food surrounding him. "You want any of this?"

_When in doubt_, he thought, _offering food is a pretty safe option_.

Not needing another invitation, Clint grabbed a bag of chips and sat down across the table. He was about to reach in and grab and handful when he remembered that he'd been bleeding all over the fucking place just a few minutes before. Bloody chips sounded disgusting.

Although...maybe not as disgusting as they should have. He was fucking_ starving._

Nevertheless, he stood and walked to the sink.

"What happened to your hand?" Steve asked, observing how gingerly the marksman was flexing his fist under the running water.

Clint muttered something.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I said 'I punched the dashboard.'" Clint repeated, his voice strained with either irritation or embarrassment.

Steve couldn't help it—he laughed.

He stopped quickly, though, when Clint spun around. Expecting some kind of violent outburst, Steve was surprised when, instead, Clint also began cracking up. "I know, what the fuck, right?" the marksman snickered, sounding only a little manic.

Although he was unable to completely suppress his smile, Steve was still concerned. He asked, "Why did you, uh..."

"Punch the dashboard?"

"Yeah."

"Tasha said 'regular sleep schedule.'" The manner in which he spoke indicated that he thought his statement made total sense.

It didn't, though. "Not sure I follow that," Steve remarked.

"Well, she was just so fucking nonchalant about it, like it wasn't a big fucking deal."

Steve still wasn't getting it. "Nonchalant about...what, exactly?"

"Sleep!" Clint exclaimed, his voice now taking on a more frenzied tone. "She just _does _it, so she doesn't get it. How fucking awful it is. It's normal, for her, and natural, and she thinks I should just get over it—"

Now that he was thinking about it, it occurred to Clint that Natasha had not actually indicated any such thing. _God_, he thought, _My mind is a fucking mess, just making shit up now, great, let's just add another fucking item to the list of how I'm going crazy._

More immediately troubling than his continued descent into insanity, though, was that Captain Fucking America was sitting there, nodding sympathetically, like he had a fucking clue what this was like. The supersoldier was fucking perfect, the very definition of a goddamn hero, so where did he get off acting like he understood this shit?

"Fuck you, Rogers, what the fuck you do know?" Clint spat at him.

Steve thought that was a little rude, and completely uncalled for, even considering the extenuating circumstances. So it was with more aggression than he maybe would have liked that he replied, "You think you're the only person who's ever had trouble sleeping?"

Clint snorted "It's more than a little insomnia, Cap. And I doubt you've even wrestled with that. 'Supersoldiers' don't have those sorts of problems. They're reserved for us poor little human bastards."

Steve was floored by the apparent bitterness that Clint felt towards him. "So you think I'm...what, perfect?"

The cynical look the marksman gave him was infuriating. Almost as much as his next words. "Wait, you mean you're not?"

"Barton..." Steve stopped to take a deep breath. When he continued, he was more calm. "I lost consciousness once and didn't wake up for almost seventy years. After that, I never wanted to sleep again. Yeah, maybe I wasn't worried that I was going to go crazy and attack my friends." Clint glared at him, but Steve continued. "I was just worried I was going to lose another seven decades, lose all of the people I cared about. And not to violence, but to time. Old age."

"But sleep wasn't the problem, not really. Eventually I figured it out. But it took a while. Weeks. And I'm still honestly not a big fan of sleeping, but I do it enough to get by. I figure I've had enough sleep for a lifetime, even if my body doesn't always agree with me." Steve offered the marksman a small smile.

Clint, his anger defused, reflected on that for a moment. "What was the problem?"

"Hmm?"

"You said sleep wasn't the problem. What was?"

Steve considered, then answered, "It was trust. Trusting myself. Trusting others. Trusting that I would wake up again. Once I found friends, people that I _could _trust, things were better. They're not perfect, probably never going to be, but they're better."

Clint sat down and munched thoughtfully on a handful of chips. Trust. And friends?

It seemed cheesy as fuck, but maybe, just maybe, there was something to that. He seemed to have the 'friends' part down, at least, as hard as that was to believe.

Even if they _were_ really fucking annoying sometimes.

* * *

Thanks to all of my readers, followers, favoriters, and reviewers! In the immortal words of Bette Midler (well, Larry Henley and Jeff Silbar, really, but no one ever cares about song writers), "you're the wind beneath my wings."

Please review. I'm not going to beg. But know that I considered it.


	12. The Island of Misfit Toys

Warnings: language, brief mention of drug use.

Thanks to my beta, irite, who is unendingly helpful and awesome.

I do not own the Avengers.

* * *

_Lying_, Bruce reflected, _is not my forte._

Well, that wasn't quite true. Lying by omission was one of the cornerstones of living with the Other Guy. You just didn't walk up to new people and say, "Hello, I'm Dr. Bruce Banner, and I sometimes turn into a giant raging monster and smash things." Sometimes, it seemed like he _should _introduce himself that way. Give people fair warning. But he didn't, because it was easier, and ultimately safer. For him, anyway.

So there was that.

But outright lying, fabricating truth, was not something he was particularly adept at. He got flustered, and mixed up details, and usually ended up flat-out admitting he was lying within a few minutes. Tony said that he thought it was a product of being so goddamn smart and so goddamn nice. Bruce's mind was occupied with other, more interesting things, so the minutiae of his lies were relegated to a position of secondary importance. And he was so disgustingly nice that he felt bad about lying at all. The combination made him fantastically inept at lying.

Bruce had rolled his eyes at the billionaire, and at the phrase 'fantastically inept' (hyperbole, much?) but really, he thought Tony might have a point. God knows he'd never tell him that.

Right now, though, Bruce was getting ready to tell a Pretty Big Fucking Lie. It was 5:10 PM, and he was currently on hold with Fury's secretary. And he knew _exactly _what the director wanted to talk to him about.

At 8:07 AM, Bruce had noticed that the printout from the lab test he had run on Clint's blood was missing. To any reasonably adept chemist, the sheet clearly indicated the presence of amphetamines and diazepam in the sample.

It had been stupid to leave it lying around. Hell, it had been stupid to _keep _it at all, but ever since his accident, Bruce had held almost religiously to lab protocol. And that meant documenting the tests he ran.

He should have filed it, though, or at the very least made sure it wasn't sitting right next to the pile of stuff he was sending back to SHIELD.

Before jumping to the absolute worst possible conclusion, though, he had torn the lab apart looking for the missing sheet of paper. For three hours, he had looked through every stack of papers, under every piece of lab equipment, and through every garbage can and paper shredder. When he'd finished all of that, he had made a resolution to be more organized.

For several more hours after his search, he had more-or-less stood in the middle of the lab wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do.

_Then _he finally decided it was time to jump to the worst possible conclusion.

He had, however inadvertently, just informed SHIELD that Clint had been using illegal drugs.

And this was a _serious _problem.

Bruce knew that the federal government had some pretty well codified policies about drug use. But he didn't know to what extent SHIELD followed those policies. He wasn't actually sure if they were a federal agency-he was pretty sure it was more of an international thing. And they were so freakishly secretive and covert and did such sensitive work, Bruce didn't know if they had to follow _any_federal regulations or rules.

He thought it was probably best to assume they did not.

So he got ready to lie. He hoped desperately that being on the phone instead of in person would help. But he had his doubts there, too.

"Banner?" Fury's voice came over the line.

"Yes, director? How can I help you?" _Play it cool, Banner. Don't Hulk Out on the phone for Christ's sake._

"I got your report today, Banner. I was just wondering why you chose that particular way to inform me that one of my agents was using illegal substances."

_And here we go. _"I'm sorry, what? That's not...what?"

"The document from the gas-chromata-whatever the fuck it's called. About Barton's blood. What was with the mystery? A phone call would have been a little more helpful."

"I'm sorry, director, but uh...I'm not following. I _did _include a printout from the GC-MS, but it wasn't Agent Barton's. It was definitely Thompson's."

The line was silent for several seconds. Then, Fury said, "Banner, I'm not an idiot. This document is clearly labeled with Agent Barton's name."

_Damn my obsession with labeling everything! _"Yeah...this lab has two GC-MS setups. I mislabeled the two samples. I knew which one was which, though. I was actually going to print off a new one with the right name, but then Tony blew up some machinery making fried eggs, and I got distracted."

Another long silence. "Sloppy, Banner. I would think you'd be a little more fucking careful. So you're saying that it was actually Thompson who was using amphetamines and Valium?"

Bruce sighed quietly in relief. "Yeah, that's why I included the printout—"

"Because there's some pretty stiff penalties for lying to cover up a crime, Banner."

_Fuck_.

"Um...I'm not lying, director. Nope. It was definitely Thompson. Thought it merited mentioning. I have to go now, I think Tony blew something else up. Feel free to call if you have any more questions!"

"Banner-"

Bruce hung up the phone.

Oh Jesus, he had just hung up on Nick Motherfucking Fury. This was bad.

He knew it was time to own up to what had happened. "JARVIS, could you please send Agent Barton down here? Actually, send everyone. We need to talk."

* * *

At his end, Fury looked quizzically at the silent receiver in his hand. As it turned out, he had some more questions _right now._ Banner was lying to him. Of that, there was no doubt. But why? To what goddamn end? _Was _Barton actually using drugs? The evidence seemed pretty fucking unequivocal. But if Banner was willing to lie about it, he'd have to get new evidence if he wanted to pursue this. Did he even want to pursue this? He knew he _should_. Protocol demanded it.

Yeah, protocol demanded it. There was a reason for that. He'd better stick with it.

* * *

From noon until four o'clock, Clint's day had actually gone pretty well. He didn't try to throw himself off the building. He refrained from punching anything or anyone.

It had been a pretty close call there, though, just after four o'clock. He had been counting down the minutes and seconds until his next dose, pacing back and forth across the kitchen, glaring at the hallway to the elevator and waiting for Natasha to show up.

She didn't.

At 4:03, Clint heard Steve's phone vibrate. The pair had gotten along fairly amicably after Clint's initial hostile outburst. Except for one small incident regarding Steve's fondness for watching movies from the 1940s ("What the fuck is this shit, Rogers?") they had passed the time in silence. Of course, Steve had been watching him carefully the whole time, and not overly subtly, either. But Clint supposed he couldn't blame the supersoldier. After all, it had been Steve who had pulled him off the edge of the roof less than 24 hours ago. If a little hypervigilance was all the mother-henning he was going to be subjected to, he'd take it in a heartbeat.

By 4:00, though, Steve was as eager as Clint was for Natasha's return. Watching Clint fall apart at the seams was disturbing, and incredibly worrisome. First had come the impatient tapping, then the grinding teeth, then the ceaseless rubbing at the temple and forehead. Last, and most recent, was the frenetic pacing.

Although...as he watched Clint wearing a hole in the floor, it occurred to him that Natasha had not actually _said _that she would be back at 4:00. The pair had just assumed as much.

When his phone vibrated a few minutes after 4:00, Steve whipped it out of his pocket with a speed that clearly communicated how on-edge he had become. He saw that he had a text message from Natasha, and opened it with a sigh of relief.

It read: "Be back 5. Clint's pills in upper right desk drawer. Give him 1 only. White ones not blue."

So Steve made his way into Natasha's room (cautiously; for some reason he thought it might be booby trapped) and opened the top right desk drawer. He found the container with the white pills and shook out a single tablet. He walked back to the kitchen, where Clint was perched on a barstool, viciously kicking the legs with his feet, and scowling at the countertop like it had personally insulted him.

"Here," Steve held out the pill, feeling possibly more awkward than he ever had in his life.

Clint's eyes slowly traced from the single tablet, up Steve's arm, to his face. The marksman clenched his jaw and his eyes flashed.

Steve tensed as well, ready to act if Clint lashed out.

As quickly as it had come, though, it passed. Clint swiped the pill from Steve's hand and popped it in his mouth. Slowly, resentfully, he stalked towards his bedroom.

"Where are you going?" Steve called after him.

"I'm going to take a shower. You want to _come_?" Clint growled over his shoulder.

"Uh...?"

The door slammed before Steve could get any further than that.

Alone for the first time in a bit more than fourteen hours (_has it really only been fourteen hours, my God it feels like it's been an eternity_), Clint was a little unsure what to do with himself. He didn't really need to shower again, although he suspected Tasha might disagree with his assessment.

Oh, what the hell. Cleanliness is next to godliness, they always say. Whoever the fuck 'they' are.

If nothing else, it was a decent way to pass the time. The hot water pounding on his back loosened the muscles there almost enough that they stopped shrieking at him, and he could dim the lights so it felt less like they were physically cutting into his brain.

So he stayed there for another hour, thinking idly about the disaster that Stark's water bill was going to be. Clint wondered if, at any point in his life, the billionaire had ever actually looked at his water bill. He had some doubts.

Since he didn't have the option of running out of hot water to force him out of the shower, he had planned on staying there roughly until the end of time. Until JARVIS spoke into the bathroom (scaring him nearly to death, not that he would ever admit as much), "Agent Barton, Dr. Banner has requested your presence on the 75th floor."

"Has he now?" Clint mused.

"Indeed, sir. Shall I tell him you're coming?"

Well, Banner wasn't one for idle chitchat. If he wanted to talk, it was probably serious. And, fuck, given how his whole life was going lately, it was probably _bad_.

"Yeah, I'll be down in a few. Hey, JARVIS?"

"Yes?"

"Did Natasha ever come back?"

"Yes sir. Agent Romanoff returned half an hour ago. Would you like me to send her in?"

"I'm in the shower."

"Yes, sir, you are."

"No, I do _not _want you to send Natasha in here."

"Very well, sir. I apologize; I had not imagined that your nudity would be a problem."

"...Yeah, thanks for your help. Now...stop talking, it's creeping me out."

"Of course, sir."

With a sigh, he turned off the spray and reached for a towel. Even Stark's fucking AI thought that he and Tasha were sleeping together. Wonderful.

* * *

While he was waiting for the others, Bruce logged into both computers and altered the records for the tests he had run. He then fiddled around with the programming to alter the timestamps on when the files were last updated. He figured that would hold his lie up for about 3.5 seconds longer than it was going to last, anyway.

Yeah, he was doomed.

Tony was the first to arrive to the impromptu meeting. "What's up?" he asked, taking a swig from a giant mug of what Bruce hoped was _only _coffee.

"I, uh...we should wait until the others get here."

Oh, so it was something serious. Tony wished he'd taken the time to add something extra to his coffee.

Steve wandered in next, and Bruce shot him a reassuring smile while gesturing for him to sit.

Clint and Natasha arrived together, Natasha looking angry and exhausted, and Clint looking only slightly bitter and...damp.

Now that they had all assembled, Bruce found he _really _didn't want to do this. But, swallowing his pride, he began, "I, uh. Well. I fucked up, guys."

Now he had their attention.

Bruce wasn't sure if he should start with an apology or the facts.

He thought maybe going with the "apology" might help him avoid ending up with his face looking like Tony's. He decided to start there. "Clint. I'm sorry. I did something stupid, and it's...really not good for you."

As he explained about the printout, feeling progressively more and more like shit, he watched what little color there had been in Clint's face drain away. When he was done, the marksman was almost completely white.

But, he hadn't tried to hit anything. So that had to be good, right?

Maybe not. Clint stood abruptly and walked to one of the garbage cans in the corner, where he rather violently vomited up whatever it was he had eaten for his last meal.

Okay, _that _wasn't good.

"Are you okay?" Natasha asked him, when he'd finished retching.

"Never...never better," he replied a little breathlessly, scanning the room for anything that might get the taste of regurgitated potato chips out of his mouth. He honed in on Tony's coffee and, with more grace and skill than anyone would have expected given the circumstances, snatched it straight out of the billionaire's hand and gulped down roughly half the cup.

"Hey...I was drinking that."

Clint wordlessly offered him the mug back.

"Fuck no, Barton, it's got your barf germs in it now."

Clint shrugged and sat down (_Real smooth, Barton, that's right, act like that was normal)_, placing the cup within easy reach. No point in letting good coffee go to waste.

He tried to ignore the steady increase in his heart rate, the tightening band of constriction around his lungs, the way the room had begun to spin.

After Clint returned to his seat and everyone was done staring at _him_, Bruce found himself again under careful scrutiny. He could tell that Natasha was pissed. He thought that was fair-he'd fucked up pretty badly. Tony and Steve, though, seemed more neutral.

"This isn't your fault, Bruce," Steve spoke after a moment. "Not entirely," he added, when it became clear that Bruce was about to interject. "I'd say we're all in this together. So let's think of a solution."

"I've been trying," Bruce replied. "I might have started with lying to Fury."

He launched into an explanation of that. He finished with, "So I bought some time. Probably only about four seconds, but at least if Fury wants to do anything he's going to have to have the drug test run again." He turned to Natasha. "Do you know anything about SHIELD's policy about this? They're a government agency, I assume they have a policy."

She nodded slowly. "I'd have to look up the specifics. But from what I remember, it's pretty clear that any agent using drugs will be removed from active duty."

Next to her, Tony was furiously tapping away on his tablet. A moment later, he read aloud, "Any SHIELD agent found to be using illegal substances will not be permitted to perform any job-related duties." He skimmed down the page, then continued, "Any SHIELD agent who freely admits to using illegal substances will be offered counseling and other assistance with cessation...if the agent refuses these services, he or she will be dismissed from the Agency." He looked up. "Well, that's not so bad."

"Did you just hack SHIELD?" Steve asked, unsure if he should be scolding or impressed.

Tony scoffed. "Please. Hacking wouldn't have taken that long. I just used Google."

"...Oh."

"That's a lot less draconian than I expected it to be," Bruce mused, after a moment. "I kind of figured it would be a one-strike-and-you're-out sort of thing."

Steve nodded. "Yeah, Clint, from what it sounds like you just have to walk in there and admit..." a quick glance at the marksman had the words dying on his tongue, though. Because Clint didn't look relieved, or reassured. Really, he looked like he was going to throw up again. He was breathing quickly, but shallowly, and the complete lack of color in his face made the fine sheen of sweat on his brow stand out prominently.

"Clint?" Natasha said, placing one hand on his shoulder.

He stood, quickly, and tried to move away. He didn't get very far, though, because a wave of dizziness had him sitting back down in a heartbeat. Instead, he hunched over with his head down between his knees, trying to ward off another bout of nausea.

Natasha wasn't quite sure, but she thought he might be having a panic attack.

* * *

This was, Clint thought, fucking infuriating. Because it had come out of _nowhere_.

Well, not completely. Of course, finding out that SHIELD now knew what he'd been trying to keep from them had been a shock. But he'd thought, after the gut-clenching spike of anxiety that had caused him to lose his lunch, he'd calm down again. He hadn't.

Because his mind, fueled by the combination of the drugs and the withdrawal symptoms that they just weren't alleviating, was so much more creative than he'd ever really known it to be. Without any input from him, it had begun constructing a list of worst-case scenarios that would have put the world's most determined pessimist to shame. They culminated with him dying alone and drug-addled on the streets of New York, just some worthless, nameless bum for whom dying was the best, most generous thing he could do for society.

He would have expected that train of thought to stop when Stark read SHIELD's unexpectedly considerate policy for dealing with drug use in the workplace. But it didn't. It just switched directions.

Because he couldn't just admit to being this fucked up. He wasn't just an addict, he was completely fucking insane underneath it. Afraid to sleep? What the fuck was that, if not crazy? And whatever the fuck was happening right now, this sudden, crushing _fear_, that was _completely _normal. Everyone already distrusted him after what had happened with Loki. If they knew he had lost it, it wouldn't matter if he wasn't fired from SHIELD or not, because no one would ever feel comfortable working with him again. In that case, he might as well die (alone, on the streets, _oh god not this again_) because his life would be, effectively, over.

In his chest, it felt like his heart might actually explode. What little air there was in his lungs had turned to lead. His vision went gray at the edges.

An unknown amount of time passed before, "Clint. Clint! _Barton_." Faint, as if from a great distance. He latched onto the voice, though, as it gave him something to focus on other than the awful certainty that he was suffocating.

He opened his eyes (_When did I close them_?) and saw Natasha was crouched in front of him. Steve, Tony, and Bruce were standing in a rough half-circle behind her, and they all wore matching concerned expressions.

Bruce stepped forward and cautiously took Clint's wrist in his hand, feeling for a pulse. He wasn't a doctor (_yet_), but he'd had enough background in medicine that he could state with certainty, "Tachycardic. With the hyperventilation and apparent dizziness, I'd say it was probably a panic attack. Has this happened before?"

Breathing a little easier, Clint nodded. "Never...during the day, though. Only at night, when..."

"When you're trying to sleep," Tony finished. He looked, frankly, nauseated. He knew that Clint had trouble sleeping, hence this whole problem, but he hadn't imagined that was what it was like. Hell, he couldn't blame Barton for trying to avoid going through that.

"It's usually worse at night," Clint added.

Yeah, _definitely _couldn't blame him.

"How long...?" Clint was going to say, 'was I out,' but it occurred to him that he'd never actually lost consciousness.

"Almost fifteen minutes," Bruce answered, understanding what Clint was trying to ask. He gave Clint a moment to process that before asking, "What were you thinking...before?"

Clint didn't answer, just began massaging the point just above his left eyebrow.

"Clint?" Natasha prompted.

"I'm fucked," he muttered, not meeting her eyes,

"What?"

"I said, 'I'm fucked,'" he stated more clearly, his eyes narrowed. He stood, fighting against lingering dizziness and nausea, and against the ever-present pain in his head. He walked over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and rested his forehead against the glass.

"Not necessarily," Tony said. "I mean, yeah, the situation's pretty shitty, but it's not like SHIELD's going to fire you, unless you do something fucking stupid like refuse to undergo treatment."

"Which you're not going to do," Natasha added, unequivocal.

"Don't you get it?" he replied, turning and stalking to the other side of the room. He sat back on his stool, but stood again a second later, opting to lean against the lab table instead. That didn't suit him either, though, so he moved to perch on top of the filing cabinet.

Four pairs of eyes watched him traverse the room.

"Get what?" Tony asked, when it became clear that Clint wasn't going to move again, at least immediately.

"It doesn't matter if they fire me," Clint said. "No one's ever going to trust the insane, drug-addicted sniper. Fuck, I wouldn't. I _don't_. And that makes me worthless to SHIELD. To any team."

"I trust you."

Clint looked up, surprised. "What?"

Steve shrugged, looking awkward. He repeated, "I trust you."

"Yeah, Barton, you're not just an 'insane, drug-addicted sniper.' You're an Avenger, and that makes you, above all else, a bad-ass motherfucker. I think we all trust you," Tony added.

Bruce nodded. "This whole team's like the island of misfit toys, Clint. We've all got issues. But we can work them out. It's not like we're only defined by what we've done wrong." A truth that they had _all _struggled with, at one point or another.

"But SHIELD..."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Oh, fuck SHIELD. We'll deal with them, too. Jump through their hoops, do what they want you to. At the end of that, if they're still being a pain in the ass, you'll still have a place here."

Clint looked floored. Even Natasha looked surprised-she had known that Tony had been reluctant to join up with any kind of team, so to see that he'd embraced the idea so fully was unexpected.

Realizing that everyone was now staring at _him_, Tony said, "What? Don't look at me like that. I'm just seizing the opportunity to take control of one of Fury's most valuable assets, that's all. Don't read too much into it."

But no one believed him. At all.

"So, what do you say, Clint? We've got your back. You gonna trust us?" Steve asked.

Slowly, Clint nodded and shrugged. "What the fuck, right?"

Tony stood, clapping his hands together. "Great! Glad that's settled...Now what?"

* * *

Hey, you just finished, and this is crazy, but if you liked it, review, maybe?

Yeah, going to go shoot myself in the head now, I don't deserve to go on living after that.

Seriously, though. Review. Please?


	13. Any Port in a Storm

Warnings: language, brief drug use, excessive angst…but when is there _not_ excessive angst?

Thanks to irite for being beta-tastic.

I do not own the Avengers.

* * *

Tony seemed ready to pack everyone up and head to SHIELD's headquarters that minute.

Bruce admired his gumption, but had what he thought was a better idea. "It's after 5:00. I know SHIELD's not exactly like a normal government agency, but I doubt Fury's going to make a whole lot of progress on this overnight. If he even tries to make any at all. I mean, he has to go home at some point, right? So why don't we wait until the morning to do anything? It'll, uh, give us some time to think. You know. About this."

Clint thought that 'time to think' was a really polite way to say 'time to get the fuck over your panic attack, Barton.' He found he appreciated the physicist's tact, as transparent as it was. And he was amenable to waiting-walking into Fury's office with vomit on his breath and panic-induced sweat soaking his shirt wasn't exactly the kind of impression he wanted to make.

Although he had some doubts that more time would really help him make a better impression. He'd been fucked up in one way or another for _days_.

Steve seemed to be Team Bruce on this one. Natasha was still a little iffy about telling SHIELD at all, so she thought taking some time to consider their options was a good idea as well. So, by majority vote, they decided to hold off until the morning. Tony, Steve, and Natasha departed, leaving Bruce to take his shift of what each of them had independently begun to think of as "babysitting."

Not that any of them ever would have uttered that word aloud.

Within forty-five minutes, Clint found himself alone with Bruce in the lab, watching him carefully set up a sample to run in one of the machines.

It was hideously boring. And though he normally handled boredom with patience and grace (his job often demanded it), right now he was in no condition to tolerate what was, to him, tortuous tedium.

"So what's that thing do, anyway?" Clint blurted out, sounding petulant and childish even to his own ears. _Nice, Barton, what's next? Going to ask for crayons? Want to play patty cake?_

But Bruce didn't notice the tone, or didn't acknowledge it. He just answered mildly, "I managed to isolate something from Thompson's urine sample."

Clint made a face.

"Yeah, I kind of thought I could avoid this kind of thing by going into physics instead of biology. Apparently that was misguided," Bruce chuckled, correctly interpreting Clint's expression. "Anyway, I have kind of an idea what I'm looking at, but I want to make sure. This thing," he pointed at the machine, "Will tell me if I'm close. It can tell me, basically, what kind of compound I'm looking at, like an alcohol or a polymer or whatever."

Clint looked at him blankly.

"That's pretty much how I feel about it, too," Bruce admitted. He tapped a few commands into the computer. "Now we wait."

And that's what they did. In silence. Except for the periodic beeping of the computer, counting down its progress towards completion.

The silence lasted until Clint couldn't take it anymore. About thirty-seven seconds, all told.

"So you've made progress, then? On whatever the fuck was up with Thompson?"

Bruce shrugged. "Maybe. I have an idea. It's really far-fetched, but this whole situation is. Gotta say, a lot of the stuff I've encountered in the last few months...well, it's nothing they taught us in grad school."

"Yeah? Like what?" Clint tapped him fingers impatiently against the surface of the lab table, then hopped up from his stool and peered at the computer monitor, like he had a clue what any of those numbers and squiggles meant. He walked over to the window and looked out before turning abruptly and heading back towards his seat. He changed his mind halfway there, though, and started walking up and down the aisles between the tables, picking things up and examining them briefly before setting them aside.

Instead of answering, Bruce watched the assassin very closely. His movement was exhausting to follow, and his attempts at conversation were strained and overwrought.

This was bad. Because Bruce was pretty sure the hastily whispered instructions Natasha had given him on her way out had included the word "distraction." _He _ had been distracted by his potential break in the case. Clint, though, seemed on the verge of fidgeting his way out of his own skin. Definitely _not _distracted.

Having grown accustomed to only Tony for company in the lab, Bruce had forgotten that infrared spectroscopy might not hold everyone's attention the way it held his.

Apparently, it hadn't occurred to any of the others that Bruce's 12-hour days in the lab weren't exactly conducive to distracting _anyone_.

"Are you...bored?" Bruce asked cautiously.

The assassin's whole demeanor had become, in the last few moments, increasingly tense and erratic.

"Bored?" Clint repeated, pacing between the window and the stool that had become his home-away-from-home. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "No, not bored. Just..." _Miserable and oh, God, my head is fucking killing me, and it's really fucking _hot _ in here and if that computer beeps one more fucking time I think I'm going to—_

Beep.

_Snap._

Clint wasn't quite sure how the computer monitor got on the floor, or how it came to be in that many pieces. He thought the chances were pretty good he had something to do with it.

From the way Bruce was breathing, carefully and controlled, as if he were counting to ten, or maybe ten thousand, in some immensely complicated language, Clint figured his initial assessment was right on the money.

"I'm sorry—" he started, but Bruce held up one hand, cutting him off.

After a few beats of silence, the physicist turned on his heel and walked—no, stalked—out of the room.

Clint stood in place, unsure of what to do. The throbbing in his head reached a crescendo, pounding in time with his racing heartbeat. He closed his eyes, and tried to breathe deeply. Slowly, the pain subsided back to its previous level of intensity, and his heart returned to a semblance of a normal rhythm.

When he opened his eyes again, Bruce was standing in front of him, wordlessly holding out a broom and dustpan. Under his other arm was a spare computer monitor. He set it on the table, then carefully disconnected the wires from the broken one. "Garbage can's by the door, Barton," he said, his tone neutral.

Clint took the hint and, accepting the broom, commenced sweeping.

While he cleaned up the mess, Bruce hooked up the new monitor. He was pleased to see that nothing else had been disturbed. But it confirmed his belief that he had to get Clint out of here, or get him distracted. Preferably both.

Returning from the garbage can, Clint tried to apologize again. "Really, I'm sorry—"

"It's not your fault."

Disbelieving, Clint scoffed, "Oh, really? Did someone else sneak in and smash your shit while I wasn't looking?"

One corner of Bruce's mouth turned up in a wry smile. "It's not my shit, it's Tony's. I'm not overly attached. And if that's all the smashing you're going to do, then I'm just going to let it slide. Amateur."

That last bit had been so unexpected that Clint barked a laugh.

The computer beeped again. Clint looked at it murderously. "I thought I..."

"You just took out the monitor. You're going to have to do better than that if you want to silence this thing, Clint," Bruce said easily. "Anyway...this is done. Let me just print the results and we can get out of here."

That was the best news Clint had gotten all day...which wasn't saying much, considering the day he'd had. But... "If you need to stay here, I can..." but he didn't know what he could do. He couldn't leave, at least, he didn't figure that idea was going to fly. And he didn't think staying was going to be beneficial for all the expensive equipment in the vicinity.

But Bruce waved him off. "I've been here since before 8:00 this morning. I'm ready to go. This'll still be here in the morning. You want dinner?"

Clint did, desperately.

* * *

The rest of the four hours that Clint spent with the physicist were low-key and surprisingly calming. Clint thought it was odd that being in the presence of a man who had been known to get angry and break entire neighborhoods could be so...soothing. But then, it kind of made sense that he'd have his emotions under control. Still, the zen vibe was...weird.

Over dinner (the best damn Kraft macaroni and cheese that Clint had ever had...he didn't know what Bruce did to it, but it was _amazing_), Clint had inadvertently stumbled into a conversation that he really hadn't been ready to have.

"Did you ever look at the nutritional content of this stuff?" Bruce had asked, poking at the pile of orange noodles on his plate with his fork. "It's disturbing. How can it have _that _much sodium?"

Clint shrugged, shoveling macaroni into his face about as fast as he could manage. He took a drink of water before answering, "Doesn't matter to me. I'm probably going to panic and puke it up in four minutes, anyway."

It had been offhand, unthinking. But really, joking was one of the few ways he could address any of this shit, so maybe it hadn't been as unintentional as he'd thought. And Bruce's composure, the way he practically exuded balance and control, invited confidence.

Bruce shot him a sharp look. Then, before he could think too much about it (but with a vague image of Tony's bruised visage in his mind, warning him) he remarked with deceptive casualness, "You know what I don't get?"

"Hmm?" Mouth full, Clint couldn't really talk. At least without approaching a Tony Stark level of egregiously bad table manners.

"Anxiety affects something like 20% of the population of this country. There's medications and therapy and all kinds of treatments for it. It's not exactly...unknown. So why did you..." he trailed off, trying to gauge Clint's reaction so far.

The marksman's face was completely blank. He had stopped chewing, had, in fact, stopped moving completely. After the last few days of ceaseless nervous movement, the effect was almost startling. "Why did I what?" he asked, even though he knew what Bruce was going to say.

He could feel his heart start to pound again. _Fuck this, Barton, not right now! _As if bitching at his sympathetic nervous system was going to help.

"Why did you decide to go with _this_?" Bruce finished.

And really, that didn't require any more clarification.

Clint swallowed, his mouth suddenly very, very dry. He took another drink of water. "It seemed..." he began, but was struck suddenly by the absurdity of what he was about to say. He burst into laughter instead.

It sounded manic and nervous, and not at all mirthful. And it subsided as suddenly as it had started.

Concerned, Bruce asked, "Are you all right?"

Clint shook his head 'no,' but replied, "Sure am. It's just...I was going to say...It seemed like a good solution at the time."

Bruce didn't find that quite as amusing as he had, Clint noted.

"Clearly, I was wrong," he added. Then, the words were flowing unhindered. "I mean, I looked it up, after the first time. I thought I was dying. Do you how fucking _common _that is? There were pages and pages of people who were going through the exact same fucking thing. But that wasn't me. It couldn't be. I'm not...after Loki..."

Bruce thought he understood what Clint was trying (but failing) to say. "You didn't think it could be something so _normal_, because what had happened to you was so completely fucked up."

Surprised, Clint nodded. "Yeah."

Bruce smiled that wry smile again. "It _is _something 'so normal,' though. Humans react to things in a surprisingly limited amount of ways, Clint. Even if the causes vary dramatically, the consequences are pretty predictable."

"Think of it this way," he went on. "If someone punches you in the face, or hits you with a two-by-four, the results are pretty much the same. The bruises might look different, but they're still bruises, and the body mends them the same way."

Disbelieving, Clint said, "You can't honestly think that. What I did, I—" But he couldn't finish, couldn't even say the words, couldn't even _think _about what he had done without the grey fog of anxiety threatening to take him back under.

Bruce held his hands up defensively. "I'm not trying to minimize what happened. Or what you're going through. I'm just trying to put it in perspective. What happened to you was really screwed up. But you can't change it. And how you've been dealing with it...that's really screwed up, too. _That_, though, you _can _change." Bruce shrugged and smiled awkwardly, like he wasn't quite sure why he'd said so much.

It seemed a little bit like a platitude, but at the same time, Clint thought it was actually really reassuring.

_Maybe there _is_ a way out of this hole you dug, Barton_.

* * *

He felt differently later.

The guard had changed at 9:30. Now it was 11:00, and he was stuck with Tony again.

Which was all well and good, except he was also, on Natasha's directive, attempting to sleep.

Although, really, he hadn't even made it that far. He was, at this point, actually _attempting _to attempt to sleep.

"Are you just going to _sit _there?" Clint growled at Tony, who was lounging in the desk chair on the other side of the room. He had his tablet out, and was, as far as Clint could see, playing some pointless game in between looking at spreadsheets.

Clint couldn't help but notice how the billionaire was spending significantly more time and effort on the game.

"Yeah, Barton. I am. What, do you have performance anxiety?" Tony replied, his snarkiness softened by an undercurrent of legitimate concern.

God, that was fucking annoying. Clint found, in that moment, he hated Tony more than he'd probably ever hated anything. He informed him as much.

"Ouch. I'm hurt. Go the fuck to sleep, Barton."

Easier said than done. Because, even though he could feel the sharp tug of fatigue somewhere under the withdrawal, the headache, the anger and the rock-hard certainty that somebody, no, everybody, was doing this because they hated him...sleep would not happen. The anxiety creeping out of his subconscious and seeping through his pores would see to that. Added to the embarrassment of going through this in front of somebody? In front of Tony Fucking Stark?

"Yeah...I'm thinking no," Clint replied, rolling onto his back, his voice strained and just a touch breathless. _Fuck, I can't _breathe...

Tony peered at him over his tablet. "Is it because you're afraid you're going to go fucking crazy in your sleep and slaughter us all? Because I appreciate the concern and all, but I think you're being a little irrational."

Well, _that _was blunt. Clint let out a breathless laugh. "You don't say."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "You know, I've got handcuffs in my room. I could tie you to the bed," he offered, joking. "That'd stop you from going anywhere. Hell, you wouldn't even have to worry about it."

Clint turned his head and shot Tony a considering look. "What kind of handcuffs?"

Tony raised his other eyebrow. "Fuck, Barton, I was kidding. I'm not tying you to the bed." He paused, then smirked and added, "I wouldn't want people to think I was taking advantage of you."

But Clint was still looking at him thoughtfully and ignored his attempt at humor. "Do you really have handcuffs in your room?"

Well. This had gotten awkward remarkably fast. "Uh...maybe." Best not to commit to anything.

Clint sat up. "What kind? Real ones? Or the useless kind with the release on the cuff?"

Oh, fuck, he was _not _going to drop this, was he? "Real ones. With a key. Okay? But I'm not tying you to the goddamn bed, Barton."

"Why not?"

"Because that's really fucked up?" _Obviously_.

The look Clint gave him clearly said 'and what about this situation _isn't_?'

Tony sighed. He couldn't believe he was actually considering this. But there was _something _he didn't understand. "If I recall, Barton—and I do—you don't take well to being tied up. Pretty sure this," he indicated the healing bruises on his face, "proves it."

Clint shrugged. "This would be different. I want this. I...I'd be..."

Tony waited, looking at Clint expectantly. Finally, the marksman finished, "I'd be in control."

It seemed paradoxical, and not entirely logical, but Tony wasn't going to argue with him. That didn't seem like it would end well. Instead, he quipped, "So do you want a safe word? 'Cause I don't want to traumatize you or something; Romanoff would _kill _me."

Clint glared at him. "I don't think you really need to worry about it, Stark."

Tony didn't say as much, but he was going to worry about it anyway. "...Fine. Wait here. Don't try to off yourself or anything. I'll be right back."

Clint was thrilled with the level of trust everyone was showing him. Try to kill yourself _once_, and things were never the same...

Less than five minutes later, Tony returned. Clint hadn't moved, except to adjust the pillows on the bed. He held out his right arm helpfully.

But Tony was still hesitating. "Are you sure about this? Because this just feels really fucking weird to me." 'Weird' wasn't quite the right word, though. It was more like 'sickening,' as in the thought of doing this actually made him feel physically ill, for reasons he just couldn't _quite _put his finger on. "It won't be comfortable..." he added

With a shrug, Clint stated blandly, "I once spent two days folded into the corner of some little faux-balcony on a building in Morocco. I can do uncomfortable."

And then Tony thought he knew why this sat so badly with him. Clint hadn't come up with this on his own, but he'd accepted it, embraced it, discomfort and humiliation and all. Because it _was _humiliating. Why would he be willing to do that? Why was he so okay with it? "You don't _have _to do this. It's not fucking necessary, Barton."

"No? I think it's a damn good idea." Clint shook his proffered arm, sending the unambiguous message: 'just do it.'

With a sigh, and against his better judgment, Tony opened one of the cuffs and fastened it around Clint's wrist. "Lay down," he muttered, and Clint obliged. Tony closed the other cuff around the center of the bedpost, in a place where it couldn't be removed without dismantling the whole bed frame. "How's that? Any circulation problems?"

Clint flexed his hand and adjusted his shoulder, which was screaming at him. "Nope, it's good." _Well, that shoulder's been a bitch for days, I don't think this is really going to matter one way or the other._

Tony pocketed the key. "If you need to piss or something, yell. I'll be over here." And he went back to his tablet, trying to rationalize away (or at least ignore) the gnawing feeling plaguing him that this was beyond screwed up.

Distracted by the previous ten minutes' events, Clint's anxiety had subsided. Now, knowing that he wasn't going anywhere, couldn't even if he wanted to, the anxiety did not come back. Left with only his headache, faint nausea, and stiff muscles, the siren call of exhaustion was impossible to ignore.

He was asleep within half an hour.

* * *

Apparently, at some point during the next three or so hours, Tony fell asleep as well. Clint awoke to the dulcet tones of Natasha chewing him out around 2:00 AM.

"What the fuck, Stark, you had one job to do here-"

"Actually, I had, like, three jobs. Maybe four. I was trying to run a company, and watch your boyfriend, and be Iron Man, and I was trying to win Bejeweled—"

"You didn't need to be Iron Man, and that fucking game doesn't count as a job, dumbass—"

"Romanoff, relax, your boytoy wasn't going anywhere, he was _asleep _for Christ's sake and—"

"Yeah, right, and that'll last about three seconds until—"

"Until you two wake me up yelling at each other?" Clint interrupted. He tried to sit up, but was immediately hindered in his efforts by the cuff. "Hey, uh, do you think you could...?"

"What? Oh, sure." Tony stood.

Natasha followed his path across the room, and her eyes settled on the handcuffs as Tony unlocked them, and Clint sat up. "What. The. Fuck. You cuffed him to the fucking bed? He's not a criminal, Stark!"

Clint thought that could be put up for debate (_Not much of a debate, Barton, you're a murderer_). But instead, he said, "It was my idea, Tasha. Tony had these lying around, I thought I might...feel better...if I knew I couldn't..."

The look she was giving him caused him to trail off. "What?" he asked, unable to figure out what was troubling her.

She sighed, exasperated. "Barton..."

Annoyed, now, he demanded, "_What_?"

But she couldn't find the words to tell him how much it hurt that he thought he needed to be restrained for their safety. How she thought she would rather deal with him, deranged and out of control, than to watch him passively accept that he was broken. That _he _was the monster, not that he had been the _victim _of one. Fuck, she didn't even know if _he _knew that he had internalized that so deeply. So instead of saying any of those things, she reached into her pocket and pulled out his pill. "Here."

Clint took the pill and swallowed it dry.

Natasha dismissed Tony with an audaciously brusque, "You can go."

Tony immediately thought up about fifty retorts to being ordered around in his own home. He wisely chose not to utter a single one. In lieu of that, he asked, "Do you want this?" He held out the key.

She was ready to give a vehement "No." Because she wasn't going to lock up her partner, her friend, like he was some kind of dangerous animal, even if he thought it was what he needed. Or deserved.

But...at the same time...Clint had been sleeping. Naturally. For the first time in...how long?

"When was the last time you slept, Clint? Without the Valium?"

He couldn't remember.

To Tony, Natasha barked, "Fine. Give me the damn key."

_Any port in a storm_, she thought.

Clint slept—restless and uneasy, but actually _sleeping_—for the rest of the night.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

I'm going to skip the song lyrics this time.

But, uh, I might be holding Clint hostage, and if you don't review…you never know what could happen to him...


	14. Choice

Warnings: just language…I think?

Thanks to my beta, irite, for keeping me on track when I do things like, I don't know, randomly start writing a completely different story in the middle of this one…

I do not own the Avengers.

* * *

It was another early morning in the lab. Bruce knew their plan was to head to SHIELD around 8:00, and he had some things he wanted to finish before then.

Depending on how badly today went, he thought he might not get another opportunity to work on this today.

Bruce walked over to the printer and pulled out the page he hadn't even bothered to look at the previous night. He brought it over to one of the tables, taking a swig of decaf coffee. Tony believed adamantly that coffee without caffeine was not only completely pointless, but an affront to God himself. Bruce disagreed; he found that the act of drinking something hot in the morning had a positive effect on his cognitive abilities. And if this thing said what he expected it to, his cognitive abilities were going to need all the help they could get.

Bruce settled onto one of the stools and peered at the printout in front of him. It took less than five minutes for him to determine two things. First, he'd been more-or-less correct in his suspicions about the identity of the substance he had isolated from Thompson's urine.

Second, there was something _really _fucking strange going on.

Well, if he got a chance, he'd have to bring this up with Fury. Because, seriously...what the _hell_?

* * *

Clint woke up a few minutes before 7:00 and immediately wished he hadn't.

Rather, Natasha woke him up a few minutes before 7:00 and he immediately wished that she would just fuck off and die a painful death.

It amounted to the same thing.

Because he felt like complete _shit_. No, worse, like shit that had been ingested, re-digested, and shit out again. And then maybe run over by a semi-truck.

His head was throbbing, the muscles in his neck and back had apparently declared war on him, and his shoulder had evidently gotten roped into the battle as well.

"Did I get run over?" he mumbled into his pillow, unwilling to move even enough so that he wasn't lying face down and in immediate danger of suffocation.

"No, Barton, you did not get run over," came Natasha's voice, clipped and irritated. God, she was a peach in the morning. She was usually pretty good about hiding it, but she was about as much of a morning person as he was. Which was to say, she hated mornings with every fiber of her being.

Clint heard a 'click,' and his wrist fell onto the bed next to him. It didn't occur to him to consider why his arm had apparently been dangling, suspended in the air. He was just relieved that the tension in his shoulder had been released.

He rolled onto his back and then wondered how the fuck he was supposed to actually get up, when even that small movement had been nearly insurmountable.

"Ow! Hey!" he yelped as Natasha unexpectedly yanked on his arm. She fiddled with something on his wrist, something metallic. _What the fuck?_

Oh. That. He remembered now. And was...mortified. Because how fucking crazy do you have to be, if the only way you can sleep is if you've been physically restrained?

_But then, _Clint thought, _is this really the most embarrassing thing that's happened in the last two days_?

The answer was an unequivocal 'no.' He wasn't even sure if this ranked in the top five. So he could deal with this. Right? This wasn't so bad.

"Shower, Barton," Natasha prodded him, terse. She tossed the cuffs to the other side of the bed, looking like the act of touching them at all made her feel dirty.

That seemed a little unnecessary. But he wasn't going to risk saying anything. Not with that tone.

With deference to 'The Plan' for the day, Clint made a concerted effort to spend less than an hour in the shower. He really did. Still, the hot water on his aching shoulders was something he was unwilling to rush. Combined with his general poor concentration (and the subsequent way he kept forgetting what, exactly, he was doing and why), it certainly wasn't a hurried affair. _They can goddamn wait for me, for Christ's sake,_ he thought. _It's not like this was my stupid fucking idea anyway._

So maybe it wasn't _that_ much of an effort to hurry. But he _was _definitely making an effort.

He still couldn't believe he had agreed to this. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure that he _had_ agreed to this (_does it matter if you did?_). One minute, it had been Steve's hesitant suggestion and the next it had been a done deal. Okay, it hadn't been quite that fast; there had been at least fifteen minutes in between the idea's conception and its approval. He'd just been too busy having a panic attack for that particular span of time to really matter.

Anyway, everyone (except maybe Clint, he honestly couldn't remember _and isn't that pretty fucking weird?_) had agreed that coming clean to SHIELD was the best course of action. The policy was pretty clear that by doing so, Clint could not be fired, unless he then refused to take the actions that SHIELD required of him. Which Natasha had assured him was not going to happen.

Clint fondly remembered a time when he got to make his own choices, but that had apparently gone out the window (_probably about the time you called Tasha crying like a little bitch baby, Barton_) and it wasn't like he had the energy or even the will to argue with her about anything, anyway.

So, that all seemed well and good, except for the one inconvenient fact that Clint wasn't too clear on what, exactly, 'coming clean' was going to entail. To him, there was a huge difference between admitting the drug use (which was going to be fucking hard—_how stupid are you, really?_) and admitting the issues that had precluded it.

If admitting that he had gotten addicted to drugs was going to be hard, then admitting that he had also gone completely fucking insane was going to be impossible.

_They can't fire you for being an addict, but can they fire you for being crazy? For being weak? Pathetic? Dangerous...?_

It seemed likely that they could. His position had been tenuous after the whole Loki incident. It had come down to Fury's vouching for him that had saved his career, and had very likely saved him from prison (or worse) as well. There were still some people—some very powerful people—who thought that Clint's continued affiliation with SHIELD was not only ill-advised, but stupidly dangerous. They thought he was a huge potential liability, likely to become compromised at any moment, either through being re-taken by Loki's mind control or by succumbing to the trauma of what had happened to him

This wasn't _exactly _going to be doing a whole lot to prove them wrong.

Clint wondered if it was too late to back the fuck out of this. Because now, after sleeping on it—really sleeping, too—he was having doubts. And 'doubts' was kind of an understatement.

'Soul-crushing anxiety' was a better description.

Which was fucking annoying and badly timed and inconvenient and _Oh God, I think I'm dying I am actually going to die Jesus Christ._

Was there ever _really _a convenient time for this kind of thing?

* * *

Natasha became concerned after exactly twenty-nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds. Even though the bathroom door was open, and it didn't _sound _like anything had gone horribly awry, and what she could see of the bathroom by peering cautiously around the door looked normal, something wasn't right.

Because she had _told_ Clint to 'Hurry the fuck up, Barton,' and this definitely did _not _qualify as hurrying.

And while he could be stupid and obstinate, made a habit of it, really, he wasn't stupid enough to disobey her before noon.

So, bracing herself (_For what, exactly? Do you even know?_) she stuck her head into the bathroom and yelled, "Hey! Are you okay?"

Which wasn't the most subtle course of action she could have taken, but there was a time and place for subtlety. It definitely wasn't _now_.

She was answered with silence, except for the constant rushing of water from the shower.

"Clint?"

Nothing.

"Barton!"

But he still didn't answer.

_Fuck._

Natasha slowly entered the bathroom. It was, like most other things in Stark Tower, excessively large and opulent. The room was L-shaped, and the shower was at the end of the room that wasn't visible from the door. Because of that, she had about three seconds to conjure up a few worst-case scenarios (_Razor? Could he have hung himself in there?_) and one really awkward scenario (_Maybe he's...? No, there's no way he's up for that_) before she could actually see what was going on.

Which wasn't much, as far as she could tell. Thankfully. Because dealing with attempted suicide and/or morning 'self-love' were both on her list of 'things I am not doing before coffee.'

No, Clint was just...standing there. Leaning forward, resting his forehead against the wall.

_What the hell_? _Maybe he just couldn't hear me_?

Natasha strode across the room to the shower door. It was frosted glass, and did a reasonably good job of ensuring the privacy of the occupant. Furthermore, it wasn't like she hadn't seen him in various states of undress before (although now that she thought about it, he'd always been wearing _something _although on more than one occasion it had only been socks), so she had no qualms about getting right up in Clint's business.

"Barton!" she barked.

But he still didn't answer. And there was no way he couldn't hear her, Christ, she was right _there_.

She had begun debating with herself pretty vigorously about just opening the damn door and dragging him out when she heard a stifled sob, something soft enough that the pounding rush of water would have easily covered it from a distance of more than a few feet.

Well, what the fuck was the appropriate response for this? _Someone needs to write a manual_, Natasha mused. _'How to Deal With Your Drug-Addicted, Withdrawing, Mid-Nervous-Breakdown and Otherwise Mentally Unstable Friends and Co-Workers.'_

She figured she'd have enough experience soon to write the damn thing herself.

Lacking any guidance, though, she was going to have to wing this. Like she'd been winging it for days. And she'd just have to hope she didn't fuck up too badly.

"Clint," she said loudly enough to be heard over the water, but softly enough that (she hoped) she was comforting. Or at the very least non-threatening. "Clint, can you hear me?"

Of course he could. But he gave no indication either way. And that was annoying.

Pushing her impatience and irritation aside, though, she tried again. "If you don't talk to me, I'll never know what's wrong. And I..._we _won't be able to fix it."

Another sob. Or a sickened, desperate laugh. It was hard to tell.

Natasha figured her time frame for how this morning was going to go had been pretty much shot to pieces. That was okay; she was flexible. And the others would wait. But she would really prefer not to be doing this in the bathroom. One of them was naked, and even for mature adults that could make things a little awkward. "Can you...get out of the shower?"

Several more seconds of silence passed by, and Natasha was about to ask again when he choked out, "Can I get a little privacy here?"

Her immediate reaction was to think 'No, you damn well _cannot _get a little privacy,' but she beat that down and instead replied, "Sure." She could give him two or three minutes. Maybe even five.

She heard the water turn off as she left the bathroom.

Clint emerged a few moments later, more-or-less clean and fully dressed, but looking none the better for it.

"Are you okay?" Natasha asked, her mouth reacting to his haggard appearance before her brain had a chance to weigh in. _Of course he's not okay, he hasn't been for _days _and I doubt anything magically started going better if what I just saw is any indication..._

Of course, he didn't answer her. So she tried something else. "How did you sleep?"

"I...did." That this was monumental was not betrayed in any way by the flat, indifferent way he spoke.

Natasha had never before noticed how annoying it was when the person you were talking to refused to make eye contact.

Well, maybe she should just get to the point. Or at least, what she suspected the point was. Because there was really only one thing that could be causing that kind of reaction. "You don't have to do this, Clint, you know that, right? The thing with SHIELD?"

From the way he suddenly clenched his jaw, Natasha figured that she had guessed right.

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" he asked, his tone suddenly very bitter. It seemed like his mood was swinging back to anger again. Well, she wasn't quite ready for that, yet. He'd have to wait a moment to indulge his irrational rage.

But with the impending anger, she was on a tighter schedule now. "Of course you have a choice. I'm not going to make you do something that has you breaking down in the shower, Clint. If you can't handle it—"

That phrase did not go over well.

"I can fucking _handle_ it just _fine _Nat!" he growled, taking an aggressive step towards her.

Not one to be easily intimidated, she held her ground. "Yeah, that's what it looked like. Look, you can talk to me. If you don't want to do this, then we won't."

Clint looked doubtful. Very doubtful.

Natasha suddenly had a revelation. "No one's going to...force you to do anything."

Because at the root of this, wasn't it about control? Controlling himself, his body, first and foremost, because he feared what he would do if he didn't. But when Loki had taken his free will, he took from him _all_ capacity for choice and for independent action. Clint's quest for control was almost certainly going to extend beyond his dangerous mission to ruthlessly control his physical body. He was going to need to control _everything_, just to know that he _could_.

And so anything that they wanted Clint to do was going to have to be his choice, his decision. If they forced him, would they really be any better than Loki? They had to at least give him the _chance _to decide. They hadn't been doing a particularly good job of that, but then, who could blame them, really? His independent choices had led him to drugs, to the edge of the roof. It was such a delicate fucking balance between trying to keep him safe and returning the autonomy that Loki had taken. It was delicate, and it was getting fucked up.  
They would need to do better.

"No."

That wasn't the response she'd been expecting. Actually, that didn't even make sense. "No? No, what?"

"No. I'm not backing out of this. Let's just get it the fuck over with." And maybe now it was too late to offer him the chance to decide on this.

"It's okay, really, we could even wait a—"

Clint stalked out of the room.

With a sigh, and feeling as if he had missed her point completely, Natasha followed him.

She had a strong suspicion that this was going to go very badly.

* * *

It didn't, actually. But it didn't go well, either.

The drive to SHIELD's headquarters had been very quiet. Natasha had taken the responsibility of driving onto herself (Tony had volunteered, but she didn't think he 'drove' so much as he 'attempted suicide and/or vehicular manslaughter').

Stark had been generous enough to suggest they take the largest SUV he owned.

Apparently, he'd been horrified at the idea of being wedged into the backseat with Steve, whose proportions made riding in small cars a truly uncomfortable experience.

Not that Tony Stark would ever ride in the backseat. He'd immediately called 'shotgun,' and then gloated over his superior seat for the entire first half of the drive.

Natasha felt more like the was driving a school bus full of middle schoolers than an SUV full of adults.

Bruce had been absorbed in some gigantic book the whole time and hadn't said a word. Which was a little strange. It wasn't that he was ever really _talkative_, but his distracted silence had seemed more complete than usual. Natasha made a mental note to talk to him later about that. Steve had made a valiant attempt at conversation, but had given up pretty quickly when it became apparent that no one else in the vehicle had his tolerance for mornings.

Relegated to the back seat, Clint had glared out the window and fidgeted, since he was deprived of having all the controls to play with.

When Stark actually uttered the phrase, "Are we there yet?" Natasha considered trying out the new knife she had strapped near her ankle. She figured she could stab him somewhere pretty safe, somewhere non-lethal. He might not even bleed that much. And it was his damn upholstery if he did.

Luckily, either because he accurately read Natasha's expression or because he got distracted by Angry Birds, Tony ceased being intentionally aggravating.

_Unintentionally, _though...was a different story. But, by some miracle, they all survived the drive, free of stab wounds.

Natasha had called Fury's secretary on the drive over, and she had been assured that the director would be more than happy to meet with them at 9:30.

Which was...odd. It was almost like Fury had been expecting them to show up this morning and had left an appointment slot open for the occasion.

_Is that really that strange? Fuck no, it's not. He _was _expecting us to show up this morning._

The fifteen minutes they had spent aggregated in the area outside Fury's office had been pretty terrible. For one thing, Clint looked to be on the verge of either fainting or making a run for it. His face was shiny with sweat and he was breathing far more rapidly than seemed necessary given his level of physical activity. Of course, he _was _pacing around the office, moving from chair to chair, at a rate that could constitute an intense cardiovascular workout, so maybe not.

They'd made a quick stop for coffee and donuts on the way in; Tony really hoped Clint wasn't going to puke again.

Five minutes into their wait, he did.

Clint's constant, agitated movement (and inability to hold his breakfast), combined with the generally tense countenance of his companions, apparently made the office workers nervous. Or maybe it was being in the same room with five out of six of the Avengers, who were known as a pretty volatile bunch. Equally as likely, it was being in the same room as Bruce Banner, who just tended to make strangers nervous. Whatever the reason, one of the office lackeys had called for extra security. The presence of armed guards_ amazingly _did nothing to improve anyone's mood, and actually (to no one's surprise) made everyone more tense. This was not, in any way, helped by Tony's apparent inability to avoid antagonizing people with guns. Steve attempted to make peace, but then took issue with the way one of the guards was treating Bruce, and things just got progressively uglier.

By the time Fury called them in, they were seconds away from an epic battle with SHIELD's security force.

And it was too _early _for an epic battle.

Fury didn't bother standing up to greet them, just gestured at the furniture around the room with a vague, "Have a seat."

When they'd settled in, he took a moment to look them over. Very little escaped his notice, but he didn't comment on their generally worn out appearances, or how truly exhausted and sick Agent Barton in particular looked.

At least, he had meant not to comment. But he couldn't resist asking, "Stark, what the _fuck _happened to your face?"

Tony grinned (or grimaced) and shrugged. "You know how I can be, director."

An answer with about a thousand interpretations. Fury could appreciate the subtlety.

Aside from that, though, Fury didn't say anything. He wanted to see what they would tell him on their own, even though he knew damn well why they were there. When it became apparent that they had apparently taken some kind of vow of silence, Fury decided to prompt them, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Which had been too vague, if the continued resounding silence was anything to judge from.

Fury thought maybe he should try being a little more direct. "I know why you're here."

Still, no one said anything. But Barton shifted in his seat so that he was staring intently at the floor instead of at the wall. Stark shared a quick look with Romanoff, who shook her head almost imperceptibly at him. Rogers, who usually spoke for the group, seemed at a loss. Banner remained, predictably, silent.

This was going to be like pulling teeth, then. Okay. He could do that. "Does this have anything to do with your fucking dismal attempt at lying to me last night, Banner?"

Bruce, who was happiest when no one was noticing him, did not like being put on the spot. "Um...maybe?"

And then Tony couldn't take it anymore. "Jesus, Barton, we're here, you made it this far, just say whatever the fuck you need to say and get this shit over with!"

Clint swallowed. He wasn't a particular fan of being put on the spot, either, at least, not for this. Because he hadn't thought about this part, hadn't been _able _to think about this part, without panic seizing hold of his nervous system and turning it to overdrive.

Now this was apparently happening, though, whether he was prepared for it or not.

"I..." he battled down the sudden nausea and his almost overwhelming desire to _run_. He tried again. "I...am..."

With five pairs of eyes on him, though, the words would not come.

Time for his contingency plan, then. He bolted for the door.

Natasha was ready for this, though, had known that this was probably going to happen from the moment this whole idea had been conceived. Leaping up after him, she snagged his arm near the wrist, halting his escape. Leaning in close, so that only he could hear her, she breathed into his ear, "You _can't _do this, or you don't _want _to, Clint? Because if you can't, I can help you. We can. If you don't want to, this ends now. No one's forcing you."

He looked unsure, like he really didn't believe her. But she didn't try to make him move, just held him in place, giving him time to stop and think. To decide, he realized. This really _was _his choice. This was not Loki, this was not an instinctive reaction aimed at self-preservation. This was not something that he was being forced into. This was _his_, in a way that nothing had been, really, for months.

It was...terrifying. And liberating.

After an eternity, he replied, "Can't, Tasha." And he sounded so small and broken and unsure, that in that moment Natasha hated Loki with an intense, burning ferocity that she had never before felt for anything.

"Then let us help you," Natasha said. He nodded, albeit reluctantly. Under her fingers, she could feel his pulse quicken and she knew he was within inches of falling apart. Again. _How many times can he do this before he can't put the pieces back together any more?_

Turning to face Fury, Natasha said as calmly and clearly as she could (because she only wanted to say this once), "Agent Barton is addicted to amphetamines, director, and he's trying to get clean."

Halfway into his next panic attack, Clint marveled at how _easily _she had been able to say that.

Fury nodded. "I know. So let's talk."

* * *

Thanks for reading!

Please review. They light up my life.


	15. New Protocol

Warnings: language, brief drug use.

Disclaimer: I am not a doctor, a psychiatrist, or a scientist. Everything in this chapter related to the topics of medicine, psychiatry, and science comes mostly from Wikipedia.

You might get tired of reading it, but I don't get tired of saying it: my beta, irite, is awesome.

I do not own the Avengers, and this is the source of all my angst.

* * *

Clint _thought _that Fury's proposition was unreasonable, but he honestly couldn't tell for sure.

This was largely due to the fact that, in his current condition, he had lost the ability to determine what was and was not reasonable. Paradoxically, he was aware that this had happened. Clearly, he hadn't been thinking straight for days, perhaps even weeks or months, as evinced by a lengthy string of alarmingly poor decisions. It was obvious.

But even so, there is always a gap between knowing something intellectually and embracing it as truth.

Clint was currently exploring this gap. And he had discovered that there are few things more annoying than listening to yourself trying to reasonably convince yourself that you are being unreasonable.

He was so caught up in this convoluted train of thought that he'd largely stopped listening to Fury after the director had said the words "complete physical." Clint hated that pair of words more than almost any other combination, except for the pair that had immediately preceded it: psychiatric evaluation.

Although, really, he couldn't get too upset about the whole psych evaluation thing. _Rationally_, Clint knew that having a panic attack in front of his boss, who happened to be the head of one of the most powerful government agencies in the world, was probably not something that was going to be brushed aside. Really, the psych eval was probably going to have happened anyway. Fury wasn't stupid, and it wasn't exactly a stretch to see that this went further than the drugs.

_Irrationally_, he felt that since this particular episode had been pretty minor (only ten minutes this time, no puking, no sobbing) it _should_ be brushed aside. It wasn't why he was there, damn it. And talking to SHIELD's psychiatrists and psychologists was akin to torture on his _best _day. In his current condition, doing so was...

"Not happening," he choked out.

Fury stopped speaking. It occurred to Clint that he hadn't actually been following the conversation for the better part of a minute, and that he had no idea what he'd just interrupted. So he clarified, "The psych evaluation."

Never one to be ruffled, Fury backtracked in the conversation to the point where Clint had apparently tuned him out. "I was just explaining the protocol, Barton. After the psychiatric evaluation and the physical, we move forward on the recommendation of your physicians. Of course, you have the right to refuse any and all of their recommended treatments. It's worth nothing, however, that your continued employment with this agency is contingent on your full cooperation."

"That's pretty shitty, though, don't you think?" Tony spoke up, having fulfilled his quota of quiet listening for the day. "I mean, Jesus, talk about backing the poor guy into a corner." He stood up, clapping his hand on Fury's shoulder. "I have a better idea."

Fury shrugged his hand off, irritated. "Stark, there is a reason we have _protocol_—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, hear me out. So, we send Barton down...up? To the nice men in the white coats, and they poke and prod at him and make their little recommendations. We listen to whatever the fuck they have to say, and then Barton decides what, if any of it, he's okay with. And we work with that, and instead of you firing him, maybe you could, uh, not?"

"Stark—"

"He's kind of got a point, director," Bruce agreed. "The whole, uh, coercion thing. It might not be the best plan. Since, um..." He trailed off, clearly unsure of how to best describe exactly why Clint wouldn't respond well to being forced. He decided to circumvent it entirely (it _was _kind of obvious, right?), instead adding, "And it's not like SHIELD's never broken protocol before. One of us is currently on the government's 'Most Wanted' list, and is also on their payroll."

Fury had to concede the point. "Sure. Right. Rules are made to be broken. You rag-tag bunch of fucking weirdos are proof enough of that. But there's an issue of liability. If something goes wrong, or if someone gets hurt, it's on SHIELD."

Natasha interjected, "Don't be ridiculous, it's not like—" just as Bruce pointed out, "I don't really think Clint's the biggest liability SHIELD has to worry about."

With a raised eyebrow, Fury looked between the two of them. Thoughtfully, he shifted his gaze to Steve and Tony. After a moment, he stated with finality, "Fine."

"Sir?" Steve questioned. Because, for a moment, the director had looked almost calculating, and that _never _boded well.

"Barton. If you do the physical and the psychiatric evaluation, and agree to at least consider the options that they present to you, I will release you into the custody of..." He stopped to think for a moment, then decided, "Agent Romanoff, who will be assisted in her task by the rest of the rag-tag weirdos. She will present twice-weekly progress reports. At the end of a month, if you have made improvements, this arrangement can continue. If you have not, then we'll proceed _my _way. During this time, you will be removed from all active duty and placed on unpaid leave. Does _that _meet with everyone's approval?"

After considering for all of three seconds, Tony grinned and declared, "I knew you'd come to see things my way." He clapped his hand on Fury's shoulder again. Something in his expression indicated that he clearly knew how annoying he was being, and that he found it immensely satisfying to do so.

Steve and Bruce shrugged, a little disconcerted by how quickly Fury had changed his mind. "Sure, I guess?" Steve said.

Natasha had some objections, though. "Sir, I'm not sure if this is really the best idea—" Because that kind of responsibility was terrifying. _What if they fucked up? __Fury was right; something could go wrong. __There were so many ways that this could end badly..._

"Romanoff, we'll be fine," Tony reassured her, still thrilled at how easily things had begun to go his way.

That did little to assuage her doubts. Tony Stark's definition of 'fine' was questionable at best. For God's sake, the man lived with a magnet _in his chest _and called that 'fine.' But, she knew that the alternative option wasn't any better. And at least this way, Clint got to choose. He deserved that chance.

So, she nodded her acceptance.

Clint, though, remained silent.

Fury prodded him, "Are you amenable to this arrangement, agent?"

Clint was thinking, as quickly as his unfocused, restless mind would allow. The idea of the psych evaluation was enough to start his heart pounding again, but the anxiety was ameliorated slightly by knowing that they couldn't do anything to him that he didn't expressly agree to. Without the imminent threat of losing his job, his choices would be truly _his_. And that was _way _more than he had expected to be given. Finally, he agreed. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm amenable."

With something approximating a smile, Fury said, "Good. I'll call medical and let them know you're coming. You're all dismissed."

As they filed out the door, Natasha couldn't help but feel like, somehow, this was what Fury had wanted all along.

* * *

Bruce hung back a bit from the departing Avengers. "Director, I need to have a word with you."

"Oh. Is it about the Thompson case? I hope you can say it in English, because I have no fucking idea what those reports you've been sending me say."

Bruce thought that maybe, if Fury didn't like his reports, he could hire a damn biologist to write them instead. "Sorry, sir. Yeah, it's about Thompson."

Fury gestured at the chairs in front of his desk. Bruce resituated himself before beginning, "I have no idea how this is possible. It doesn't make any _sense_."

Steepling his fingers, Fury gave Bruce a long look. "Banner, if I got all worked up every time something didn't make any goddamn sense, I'd be on my fifth fucking stroke by now. Just get to the point."

"Sure. Uh. Okay. I managed to isolate a compound from Thompson's urine. I'm not quite sure what it is; it's nothing I've ever seen before. As far as I can tell, it's nothing _anyone _has ever seen before. But it's kind of like..."

Fury made an impatient gesture. "Go on."

"Sorry. It's, uh, kind of like a peroxide. It might _be _a peroxide, I don't know, there's something off about it, but that's the closest thing I can think—"

"Banner, why does this matter?"

Bruce shot him a look like, 'duh, isn't it obvious,' but then realized that, to the uninitiated, it probably wasn't. "Some peroxides are massively explosive."

"Ah."

"So, it _looks _like a peroxide, except the mass is completely wrong, unless it's made with some element that doesn't exist."

"Doesn't exist, or doesn't exist _yet_? Because give Stark two motherfucking weeks and it might exist."

"Uh...doesn't exist yet, I guess. But that's not the point."

"There's a point?"

The look Bruce gave him was tortured and long-suffering, and Fury _almost_ felt bad for him. "The point _is _that peroxides can form on contact with atmospheric oxygen. So whatever was in his urine probably wasn't a peroxide before it hit air. And if I'm going to make any progress on figuring out where this came from, I need to know what it was before it hit air."

"Do you think it was whatever Thompson spilled?"

"I don't know. It's possible. Whatever he was exposed to might have been converted to that form in the body, though, I don't know."

"So, why don't you just test it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm pretty sure there were two barrels of the shit that Thompson spilled that the forensics team picked up. I had them sent to you with everything else."

Bruce's expression was puzzled. "I didn't get those."

"The fuck you didn't; I got the inventory sheet you sent over."

Bruce thought, _Oh, so you could read that part? _He didn't voice that, though, opting for the much safer, "I didn't get any barrels, director. That would have been something I noticed. And, uh, it kind of would have been the first test I ran. I just figured you hadn't been able to find any, or hadn't sent it over because it was too dangerous..."

Fury pulled out a file and dug through it. He wordlessly handed one of the sheets to Bruce.

It was the inventory sheet that Bruce had sent over. Except, clearly marked as "received," were two barrels of "unknown liquid" that Bruce had _not _included in his list.

"What the fuck is going on, Banner?"

Dumbfounded, Bruce looked at the sheet. "I have no idea. I didn't get those."

Fury could tell that Banner was telling the truth. He was such a dismal liar that it was pretty much immediately evident when he tried to do it. The physicist was genuinely perplexed.

"So you're telling me that, somehow, these two fucking barrels full of god knows what—that also happens to turn living creatures into bombs—have gone missing, _and _that someone hacked your files to hide that they were taken?"

"Um..." Bruce tried to think of another possibility. He couldn't. "Yeah. It looks that way."

"I think we've got a pretty serious problem, Banner."

* * *

The physical was first, and it was fucking awful.

The word the physician used was "comprehensive," but Clint thought "fucking awful" was far more apt.

After being poked and prodded extensively, stuck with needles, put on a treadmill, x-rayed, and CAT-scanned, the doctor declared him dehydrated, malnourished, tachycardic, and hypertensive, with a slight fever. "But you're not in imminent danger of death. So that's good."

Given how he felt, Clint found that a little hard to believe. "Are you sure?"

The doctor actually smiled, and Clint fought the desire to punch him. He was successful. _Look at the progress you're making, Barton. Maybe in a century or so you won't be completely fucking crazy._

"It probably feels like you're dying. Headaches, muscle pain, nausea? Some of that's related to the dehydration. Some of it is excessive muscle tension. Mostly, it's just your body bitching you out for the shit you've been putting it through for months."

Clint wondered where SHIELD found these people. Talk about bedside manner. "Uh, okay...?"

The doctor closed his chart. "Try massage for the muscle pain, and Tylenol. For the headache, too. Though it might increase the nausea. I can get you an antiemetic for that. You need to eat, drink a lot of water, and _sleep_, Agent Barton, more than anything else. Try that, and come back in two weeks. You're going to be off the amphetamines then?" The doctor had approved a schedule for cutting his usage down that more-or-less followed what he'd already been doing.

Clint nodded slowly, ignoring the jab of shame stabbing in his guts. The doctor had been amazingly non-judgemental, and the shame wasn't necessary, but Clint couldn't escape it. Not entirely.

"Good. We'll be able to get a better look at the any long-term cardiovascular issues then. And we'll see if your blood pressure has come down. It should. Now, I know psych is expecting you. I've arranged to have one of your, er, friends take you over, but I need to have a few words with Agent Romanoff. Send her in?"

"...Sure." Resenting the implication that he couldn't (or wouldn't) make it to psych on his own, Clint sulked out of the exam room.

By some amazing stroke of luck, it was Steve and not Tony who was waiting for him outside. As helpful and supportive as Tony had been, Clint didn't know if he could handle that much...stimulation at the moment. Steve was much more reserved in general, and just asked him quietly, "How'd it go?"

"Fucking miserable. Where's Tasha?"

"She went—"

Natasha appeared from around the corner and walked towards them. "You done?"

"No. Psych," Clint informed her, his voice flat. "The doctor wants to talk to you. Room 302."

"Oh. Sure. I'll find you when you're done?"

"Whatever." He stalked down the hall.

Steve threw an apologetic look and shrug over his shoulder at her. She waved it off. She could understand Clint's current mood; if she'd just had a medical examination lasting well over two hours, she'd probably be approaching homicidal. Given how much she knew Clint didn't want to be doing this, and how awful she knew he felt, she thought it was pretty impressive that the doctor in room 302 was still alive _and _up for another meeting.

She slipped into the exam room.

Clint led Steve through a number of doors and hallways, tracing a complicated path that, even with the signs and arrows pointing the way, Steve wondered if he could have navigated on his own. It occurred to him that this obviously not the first time that Clint had made this trek.

When Clint stopped abruptly outside a pair of double doors, Steve nearly walked into him. The sign on the wall read, "Psychiatric and Psychological Services."

Clint had been carried this far by the irritation resulting from his two and a half hour physical and an overwhelming desire to get the fuck out of here. Now that he was _there_, though, the next part—the 'going through the door' part—was something that he wasn't quite prepared for. Because this was the terrifying part.

_Maybe that doctor wasn't so far off base to set up an escort_, Clint thought, bitter. _If I was alone, I'd have run already_.

Steve thought he knew what was going on—the rigid set of Clint's shoulders, the way he had very nearly frozen in place, were pretty clear indicators. But he didn't know what, if anything, he should do. After twenty seconds of this, though, he started to feel just a little bit ridiculous and decided that a little encouragement was in order. "You gonna go in there? If you're not, that's okay, but—"

"No. It's not okay. I'm...going. I am." But he didn't move.

So Steve took the initiative and walked through the double doors. Surprised into motion, Clint followed him. Walking to the receptionist, Steve said, "Agent Clint Barton is here to see...someone."

The receptionist, a complete professional, was entirely unimpressed by the presence of Captain America and nonplussed by the disheveled, nervous, and clearly uncomfortable countenance of the SHIELD agent he was escorting. "Of course. Dr. Williamson is expecting you, Agent. Her office is in room 399, down the hall and on your left."

Feeling more than a little bit like he was being thrown to the wolves, Clint slowly walked down the hall until he found room 399.

He knocked, then entered. He closed the door behind him.

"Agent Barton?" asked a female voice, from somewhere out of his line of vision.

The anxiety creeping through him was undeniable. Maybe if he just closed his eyes, this would all just go away...

No luck. "Agent Barton, are you all right?"

Well, that was an easy question. He shook his head. It was probably better to be honest. It would get this over with faster, and part of him, a pretty large part, actually, wanted desperately to break free of this awful fucking panic. And that was only going to happen if he could face it.

When a hand gently grabbed his wrist and began guiding him across the room, his first instinct was to lash out and _flatten _whoever was touching him. But he'd been having a pretty good day about attacking people and things, and so he restrained himself. He let himself be led to what he assumed was a couch. After a few seconds of sitting, he felt up to opening his eyes.

Dr. Williamson had retreated to her desk after depositing him on the couch, and Clint appreciated the space. _Which_, he thought, _she probably knows_. _Since she works with crazy fucking nutjobs all day_.

"Does this happen often?" she asked him, when he'd had a moment to gather his thoughts.

He gave a mirthless laugh. "Only seven or eight times a day."

She nodded, writing something in her notes. "It says here that you, uh, were subjected to some kind of brainwashing several months ago. I have the notes from Dr. Shayne, who you spoke to immediately following the incident in Manhattan. But I'd like to hear about it in your own words. Could you please tell me more about that situation?"

From the way he went completely rigid, Dr. Williamson deduced that no, he probably couldn't. "Or not. Okay, why don't you tell me..."

Things went in a safer direction from there, for which Clint was immensely grateful. They talked about his troubles with sleep, and the increasing frequency and severity of his panic attacks. Although Williamson was clearly concerned (Clint thought that SHIELD ought to train their doctors to have better poker faces), at no point did she reach for the phone to call for security. She didn't even suggest hospitalization—a vague fear that had been living in Clint's mind, buried amongst all the other vague fears.

She did suggest medication. And therapy. "Agent Barton, from what I can see, you have both a specific phobia and a more general anxiety issue going on. Your issues with sleep are...unusual, but not unheard of, and I think this is something that you could work out with psychotherapy. I can prescribe something for the panic attacks and for the recurring anxiety."

"No, I don't want—"

She gave him a look. "Whatever objections you have to medication, Agent Barton, I can assure you that they are probably completely unfounded. Clearly you are not opposed to using chemicals to alter your brain chemistry—" Clint thought that was a little low "—so I'm not sure what your issue is."

Jesus, these SHIELD doctors were _blunt_.

Clint thought about ranting about how needing medication was weak, and pathetic, and his issues stemmed from _him _being weak and pathetic. He also considered questioning the wisdom of treating a drug addict with more drugs. But the vicious headache that was growing with every passing minute and the increasing tension in his muscles and shaking in his hands made him reconsider. Questioning her would just keep him there longer, and he wanted out. Now.

He'd just have to trust that she knew what the fuck she was doing. "Fine."

She beamed at him, looking so pleased at his choice that he felt like an asshole for being such a recalcitrant jerk.

...He also felt just a little bit like he'd been played.

"I'll write this up and send it to the pharmacy, then. I'll put a rush on it; it'll be ready in a few minutes. As for the therapy...?"

She was giving him an opportunity to reject that, too. Well, fuck that. In for a dime, in for a dollar. He could always back out later. "Whatever."

That bright smile again. God, that was kind of unnerving, now that he was thinking about it. Or maybe that was just his mind fucking with him. "I'll make some calls, then. I have your number; do you want me to contact you, or have the prospectives contact you directly?"

"I don't care."

"I'll call you, then. I see you're going to be back here for a physical examination in two weeks. Why don't you come by then and we can see how everything is working out?"

"Fine."

She tapped some keys on her keyboard, then looked up. "Great! Don't forget to go to the pharmacy. I'll see you in two weeks."

Feeling more than a little overwhelmed, Clint wandered out of her office and into the hall. Steve and Tony were waiting for him.

"So are you crazy or what?" Tony asked in lieu of a greeting. Steve punched his arm. "Ow! What? It's a legitimate question!"

Clint wasn't offended, though, because he suspected that the gross inappropriateness was a not-so-clever way of disguising actual concern. "Seems that way. I need to go to the fucking pharmacy. Where the _fuck _is Nat?"

"Uh, she went to find Bruce," Tony said, leading the way towards the pharmacy. "We drew straws. No one wanted to see Fury again."

With a snort, Clint asked, "Did you really draw straws?"

"Of course not. We didn't have straws. We played rock, paper, scissors."

Clint looked at Steve, who just shrugged helplessly. "Tony insisted. I was just going to go, but he wanted to be 'fair.'"

Clint shook his head, regretting it almost immediately as it intensified his already-epic headache. He looked at his watch and saw it was almost 2:00. Well, that explained a _lot_. Like, for example, why he felt about ten times worse than he had when he woke up—and he had felt pretty terrible then. He'd been so distracted by his shitty day that he had completely forgotten to get his last dose at noon. Well, they'd find Tasha in a minute and get this under control.

At the pharmacy, he took the bag they gave him in silence and thrust it indifferently at Tony. He didn't want to carry it, and he figured Tony was so nosy that he'd want to know all about this shit anyway. This way, Clint figured, he didn't actually have to _talk_.

Exactly as expected, Tony tore into the bag and started pulling out the documentation that the pharmacist included with new prescriptions. "Geez, Barton. Diphenhydramine? That's just overpriced Benadryl. Alprazolam? Oh, that's Xanax, okay, that's nice. Sertraline?—"

"Could you _not _read that out loud?" Clint snarled at him, irritated that his plan of 'not talking' had been shot to hell so fast.

"Oh. Sure, sorry. Wasn't thinking, Barton. HIPAA and all that shit, right? Well, I won't violate your privacy, nope. Not me. Well, I will. But I'll do it quietly."

Clint didn't think that HIPAA was exactly relevant to this situation, but if it got Tony to shut up, he wasn't going to argue.

They were heading through the lobby when Natasha and Bruce appeared. "Hey, guys," Natasha greeted them, her voice tense. "Bruce and Fury think they've found something...bad."

Bruce explained as simply as he could.

"Sounds like a job for the Avengers," Tony mused, both eyebrows raised.

"Be serious!" Steve said. "This could be _really _bad. I mean, someone accessed Bruce's files, Tony, don't you think that's kind of a problem?"

"Well, yes and no. I mean, his password for everything is SMASH so it's not like it would be hard to hack—"

"What the hell, Tony, no, it's _not_—"

"But why would someone want to do that? Did they break into the Tower and do it manually, or was it remote? Because either way we've got a security breach..." he trailed off thoughtfully. "I need to get back and run some diagnostics."

Natasha nodded. "Take Clint with you. I need to stay here. Bruce is going to go talk to some of the biochemists. Steve, Fury wants to talk to you—"

"Wait," Clint interrupted. "If something's going on, I should be here—

"You're on unpaid leave, Barton."

"Fuck that!" His eyes flashed. Tony placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, Barton. We'll get you home and all drugged up, then you can help me do security scans, it'll be great."

At the words 'drugged up,' something clicked for Natasha. She pulled a pill out of her pocket. "Here, Clint, sorry this is late, I forgot—"

He snatched it and, without a backwards glance, stomped towards the parking garage.

Natasha sighed. "Stark. Don't forget to feed him. Don't drive like an asshole. And don't forget—"

"Yeah, mom, I've got it. We'll be fine." And he followed Clint, yelling, "Hey, Barton! You're not going to get very far since you don't have the _keys_! Be nice or I'm going to make you sit in the _back_!"

"All right," Natasha said, with another heavy sigh, watching them depart. "Bruce, do you need me to bring you to the labs, or do you remember the way?"

"Um. I wouldn't mind an escort. Someone might call security again if I go alone."

It was a legitimate point. "Okay. You good, Steve?"

"Yeah, sure. I don't think anyone's going to call security on me."

"Good. Let's try and meet up in a few hours, make it back to the Tower if we can. I don't trust Stark and Barton alone for more than four hours."

They went their separate ways, so caught up in the drama of the moment that they didn't even notice how what had been a sunny afternoon had suddenly changed into a thunderstorm.

* * *

Classes resumed on Monday, so updates are probably going to be less regular. On the plus side, I've come to realize that this story is probably going to be twice as long as I had originally anticipated.

Please review. I've got a bad case of I-hate-my-whole-life, and each review brightens my day by 3.9%.


	16. Lessons

So, you guys are pretty much amazing. The response to the last chapter was incredible. Eighteen reviews on one chapter? Fucking _awesome_.

Warnings: language, drug use.

My beta, irite, has been especially amazing lately.

I do not own The Avengers.

* * *

Clint thought that there was really nothing more fucking boring than watching someone else working.

And so his current situation was non-ideal. It was made more so by the fact that he had recently become incapable of handling tedium with any kind of level-headed patience.

The drive back to the Tower, though, that had been exciting. Or maybe it had been terrifyingly dangerous. He found it a little hard, currently, to tell the difference between the two.

He wondered about Tony, that the man seemed to _always _find it a little hard to make that distinction.

Clint honestly didn't know what was more disturbing, though. That, or Tony's genuine enthusiasm about running diagnostics on his security software. Clint felt that kind of excitement really should be reserved for something that was actually _fun._

Before Tony had settled in for his 'fun', though, he'd made sure that Clint was all set to go on the meds front. As irresponsible as Tony sometimes tended to be, he took that particular duty very seriously. Clint was surprised (though he shouldn't have been, really, not after knowing Tony for so long) that Tony had retained every word of the inserts that the pharmacy had sent along with his new medications.

So Tony had gotten him squared away, and then spirited the pill bottles away with an apologetic, "Sorry, Barton. Romanoff's orders. It's not that she doesn't trust you-"

"It's fine. She shouldn't," Clint interrupted, trying his best to win a staring contest with the floor.

Tony had shot him a concerned look-that Clint did not see-and said with an attempt at nonchalance, "I need to do some work in the lab. Wanna head down now?"

Clint pretended that he had been offered another option (_He can't make you do anything, Barton, you know that, but it would be funny as hell to see him try_). Clint gritted his teeth, forcing that thought away. "No, that sounds fine. I'll be...fine."

And Tony, bless his work-obsessed soul, had bounded off towards his lab, checking only briefly over his shoulder to make sure Clint was behind him.

He was. Begrudgingly.

Clint _was_ trying really hard not to resent being treated like a toddler. He knew that they were all just trying to help. And he knew that they were right not to trust him too much, because he didn't even trust himself not to do something stupid at this point. When a headache was eating its way back through to his occipital lobe, or when he was in the throes of a panic attack, or when the cravings were so bad that he would sell his soul to the first person who would give him his pills...when those things happened, he didn't trust himself at _all_.

So, he'd been sitting in Tony's lab for most of the afternoon, alternating between pacing the length of the room from end to end and sitting sulkily in a chair, staring furiously at the back of Tony's head. This _uselessness_ chafed, and he was nursing a growing resentment towards, well, just about everything at this point. _Yeah, benching me was a great fucking idea. Now instead of doing something useful I can just sit here. And think. Just what I needed._

Lacking any and all distractions, by 6:00 he was pissed off, and starving, and in the middle of the worst craving that he had experienced yet. And he was far, far too resentful to give voice to any of this. Because what the _fuck _good would that do?

He'd had the cravings before, at least he thought he had, for the last few days. Now, he realized that those hadn't been cravings. That had been his physical dependence, his body protesting the new regime. This was different. He didn't know if it was the stress from his miserable day, or if it was because his last dose had been late, but all he could think about was his pills, and his obsession grew with every boring moment of watching Tony work.

The obsession turned to frustration, and the frustration to rage. His agitated pacing kicked up a notch, and soon he practically stalking through the lab, struggling not to break the first thing that moved.

Tony, absorbed in his work, remained completely oblivious to Clint's activities. At least, until he turned around, saying, "This is so fucking strange, I'm not finding any evidence of a breach. Bruce was the only person who accessed this..." The words had died on his tongue when he saw the look Clint was shooting him.

It was alarmingly close to "blind hatred," and Tony wondered what he had done to deserve that kind of emotion. He'd just been _working_, damn it!

"Barton?"

"_What_?"

That tone wasn't especially comforting either. "Er. Nothing." Tony looked at his watch, then doubled checked it against the clock on the wall. "Shit, Barton. I was supposed to feed you. Any preferences for dinner? I make a mean bowl of Lucky Charms."

"I want Fruit Loops." Clint could barely hear himself speak over the duet of his frayed nerves and his throbbing resentment, but was nevertheless aware that he sounded petulant, like the toddler he so resented being treated as. That realization just made everything worse, and he gritted his teeth against the sudden intensification of the pain in his head and of the burning desire that had overtaken every nearly every thought in his mind.

Tony thought of about 2,000 jokes he could have made right there, but apparently decided that now was not the time for any of them. "Sure. Fine. Let's go."

So they'd left the lab. Tony, now more tuned in to Clint, could sense the anger-or something like anger-rolling off of him in waves. And he was _so _tense, more so than he had been at any point since this whole mess had started.

Tony's first reaction was, of course, to poke at him, to gain some more information to integrate with his observations, which would help him figure out what was going on. But a vague ache under his eye acted as enough of a warning. He remained silent, wondering briefly where this newfound common sense had come from.

Three steps off the elevator, Tony's phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket. "Sorry, Barton, it's your girlfriend. Gotta take this. And I need to grab something upstairs. Why don't you grab some food and I'll be down in a few?" Without waiting for an answer, he ducked back into the elevator, answering his phone with, "Hello darling. Where the_ fuck _are you?" and leaving Clint alone in the entryway.

Alone.

_Really? _

Sure, it wasn't the first time he'd been alone since this whole thing had started But Nat wasn't sitting outside the bathroom, and Rogers wasn't sitting outside of his bedroom. He was actually _alone_.

Perfect. But he didn't have much time.

He made a beeline for Natasha's room.

Underneath the craving that was currently behind the wheel in his mind, he was aware of some part of him screaming that this was a bad idea, the worst possible choice he could make. That this wasn't even him _choosing_, this was him _reacting_, and if he ever wanted to feel in control of his life again, he was going to have to learn the difference. But that was easy to ignore, laughably easy, because this was what he _needed_ and fuck _anyone _trying to get in his way.

Finding the pills that Natasha had stashed in her desk drawer was also laughably easy. He felt momentarily sick, knowing that she hadn't done a better job of hiding them because she had trusted him not to do exactly this. She had trusted him to put up at least a little bit of resistance, not to cave in at the first hint of a craving. But this wasn't a hint of a craving, this was the real goddamn thing and _Oh my God I need this _now.

That tiny shred of trust had been misplaced. Clint knew that he didn't deserve even that much.

Well, she would know that, too, soon enough, and she wouldn't make that mistake again. So he shook out the whole contents of the bottle into his hand. There weren't many left. He dry-swallowed four and pocketed the rest.

The relief was immediate, and that pissed him off, because he knew that was just his mind playing tricks on him.

Tricks or not, the relief washing over him turned his legs to jelly, rendered him incapable of moving. He fell to his knees, the empty pill bottle falling from his hand and bouncing away.

After a few minutes, he could hear Tony calling his name, but he didn't yell back, didn't give away his position. He just closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, pushing back against the emotions that had been nearly overwhelming him a few moments before.

And when Tony walked up behind him 30 seconds later, it didn't take him long to put together what had happened. Tony Stark was a genius, after all, and the evidence was pretty fucking unequivocal. The empty bottle on the floor next to Clint, for example, was very telling.

Tony didn't _quite _get it right, though, and that was somewhat comforting. Genius or not, he still made mistakes. This mistake, Clint thought, was perfectly understandable, though; the billionaire had seen the empty bottle and apparently jumped to the worst possible conclusion. The way things had been going lately, that was a pretty reasonable course of action.

Tony crossed the room in two steps and picked up the bottle. "Oh Jesus, fuck, Barton, what the fuck?"

Both the panicked look on his face and his colorful language were pretty funny, Clint reflected, and he burst into laughter.

He quieted abruptly, though, when Tony grabbed him by the back of his shirt and started to literally drag him towards Nat's bathroom. Clint would give it to him-Tony was pretty strong. But as fun as this was, he didn't think he'd like where this was going. "The fuck are you doing, Stark?"

Tony managed to get him into the bathroom, and sliding Clint across the tile was significantly easier than moving him across the carpet. A few more steps, and Tony deposited Clint unceremoniously in front of the toilet. "The fuck do you _think _I'm doing, Barton? You're not dying on my watch, not right now. We've got a fucking problem."

Clint thought about pointing out that he wasn't actually in danger of dying, had not, in fact, been trying to kill himself, but he was more curious about the second part of Tony's statement. "Problem? What kind of problem?"

"Barf first, questions after, Barton."

The look that Clint shot Tony was pained, but the billionaire was unrelenting. So Clint rolled his eyes and stuck a couple of fingers down his throat. He hadn't eaten anything substantial since breakfast, and that hadn't lasted past 9:00 AM, so the only thing that came up was stomach acid and most of the four pills he'd taken a few minutes before.

Looking mildly disgusted, Tony had examined the contents of the bowl. "That's it? What the hell?"

Clint spat one last time, and stood to rinse out his mouth. He tried very hard to keep his emotions under control as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the rest of the pills he'd squirreled away. That endeavor became more of a challenge when he handed them to Tony, and he nearly flipped his lid when Tony tossed them indifferently into the toilet and flushed everything away.

He had to fight down an almost unbearable urge to dive after them, but he was stronger than that, damn it.

_The fuck you are. _

The headache was already coming back.

"Is that it?"

Clint nodded.

There were several beats of silence, then Tony said, "Turn out your pockets, Barton."

Humiliating. But he complied. He'd earned this, after all. He'd just consider this a lesson in exactly how the fuck not to act in the future.

Satisfied that Clint had really handed over all the pills (and feeling like an ass for doubting him, but what else could he do?), Tony turned to leave, beckoning for Clint to follow. "Come on. I need to run a GPS trace. And then we've got a demigod heading our way."

As they walked, Tony told Clint what was going on. He knew Fury wouldn't like it-the director thought putting Barton on leave was a good idea. But Tony felt pretty strongly, now, that leaving Barton with nothing to do was a bad fucking idea, if what he'd just stopped was any indication. The man needed a distraction more than he needed time to quietly reflect. And this was going to be a pretty damn big distraction.

The problems that might come from involving Clint in this sort of thing in his current state were mostly lost on Tony, whose impulsiveness generally precluded that kind of consideration.

Clint followed Tony back down to the lab, listening to his explanation with growing concern, the craving receding somewhat in light of actually having something to focus on.

He _did_ remember to stop for his Fruit Loops on the way, at least.

* * *

Natasha had sent a text message to Steve and Bruce at 4:15, telling them that it was time to go.

Steve had responded almost immediately, and had made it to the rendezvous point in under ten minutes.

Bruce, though, did not respond.

That wasn't so strange. Natasha figured he was busy doing...whatever it was that he did. He was pretty terrible about answering text messages in general. If he was working, his response rate crept down towards 0. So she wasn't worried, just a little annoyed, and when Bruce didn't answer her second message, either, she called him.

The call went to voicemail.

And that _was_ a little strange, because he was usually good about answering his phone. But, the science labs were underground. Even though they all had phones designed by Tony Stark himself that were practically guaranteed to have a signal anywhere on the planet, she thought that _maybe _the call wasn't going through.

So she called the biochemistry lab directly. That was when things started to go badly.

An intern, Jessica Starnes, had answered the phone.

"I'd like to speak with Dr. Banner, please," Natasha had said.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Banner's not here. He left almost an hour ago."

Natasha had not expected that. "What?"

"Dr. Banner left a little bit after 3:00. He hasn't been back. Did you try his cell?"

"Yes. Did he say where he was going? Or if he'd be back?"

"Um...I'm not sure. He did say something about heading to offsite storage, I think. I didn't even know we had that..."

Natasha expected that was because they _didn't_. She was beginning to have a really bad feeling about this. "Thanks. If you see him, let him know that Agent Romanoff is looking for him."

But Natasha already knew that Bruce wasn't going to be showing up in the lab again today. Gut instinct or pessimism, it was tough to say, but she was pretty damn sure.

She hung up the phone and looked at Steve. "I think we have a problem." She explained her phone conversation with the intern.

Steve thought she was overreacting. "It's only a missed phone call, Natasha. I'm sure he's fine, probably just distracted wherever he ended up, and can't hear his phone ringing."

Natasha might have believed that, except for two things. "Dr. Banner doesn't go anywhere in this building alone. People keep calling security on him. So he wouldn't have just left. Also-"

"Unless he wasn't alone."

That was a good point. Natasha pulled out her phone again. "Ms. Starnes. Did Dr. Banner leave _with _anyone? He did. Who? Great. Thanks." She ended the call. "Banner's with one of the biochemists. Dr. John Lucas. But it's still not like him to leave without telling anyone where he was going."

"Maybe he told Fury?"

It was unlikely; Bruce went out of his way to avoid talking to the director. But it was worth a shot. She pulled out her phone. Fury answered on the first ring. "Romanoff. Good timing. Get up here."

That threw her off. "Sir?"

"And bring Banner. Rogers, too, if you can find him." And Fury hung up.

Natasha looked at the phone in her hand, a bit bewildered. "Well, I'm gonna say he doesn't know where Dr. Banner is. But he wants to see us."

So they had gone back up to his office.

For some reason, Natasha wasn't at all surprised to see Thor sitting in one of the chairs in front of Fury's desk. Today had already gone pretty much as far sideways as it could. Adding in a demigod didn't seem like it would make that much of a difference.

"My friends!" Thor greeted them warmly. Natasha let him hug her with as much good grace as she could manage, and experienced a fair amount of satisfaction from watching how awkwardly Steve took _his _hug.

Fury, for his part, looked like he was in the middle of an epic migraine. "Thor was just telling me a really great fucking story. Thor, why don't you start at the beginning? And where the hell is Banner, Romanoff?"

"I can't find him, director, I think-"

"Damn, I really wanted him to hear this. You'll have to fill him in later. Thor?"

Natasha quieted. Whatever Thor had to say had apparently gotten Fury pretty damn upset, and that never turned out well.

"I would like to reiterate that my brother has done nothing."

"Thanks, got that part. But it's still his fucking fault, so move on."

Thor looked annoyed at Fury's tone, but nevertheless continued, "It is very difficult to tell when my brother is telling the truth, or when he is spinning lies for his own amusement. This particular tale I had believed a lie for a long while."

"Those creatures that comprised my brother's army...the Chitauri...are different from any creature that I have ever known. They are completely unknown to Asgard and, I believe, to Midgard?"

Fury nodded, and Thor continued, "My brother has spoken of them at length, since his imprisonment, and since I could not understand why he would tell me of them, I assumed that his words were false. Why would he reveal genuine information willingly? To what end?"

Natasha thought that was a legitimate point. Loki was a liar. He wouldn't tell the truth unless he had a damn good reason.

Thor went on, "One thing that has come up often was the unique properties of the Chitauri's blood. He had it examined while he was on Midgard, and had it collected and stored in great quantities at strategic locations. Apparently, if it is consumed, it grants one unimaginable powers of destruction. The description my brother gave was entirely fantastical, and of course I did not believe him..."

Natasha was putting the pieces together. Maybe not as fast as Tony or Bruce would have, but pretty damn fast nonetheless. "Let me guess. Lots of fire, explosions, that sort of thing?"

Thor nodded gravely. "It is as you say. How did you know?"

Steve looked at Fury. "The missing barrels...?"

Fury said, "Yeah, I think so."

Natasha turned to Thor, who was looking progressively more confused. "So, what gives? Why did you start to believe him? Why are you here _now_?"

"My brother has maintained adamantly that the Chitauri blood is immensely dangerous, too dangerous for humans. He believes that it will be used to cause great harm, and has given me instructions for its disposal. He has, just today, staked his freedom on his claim that what he says is true."

Fury blinked a few times. "...Please tell me that doesn't mean what I think it means."

"If his claim is true, and this substance does what he says it does, then he will be heralded as a hero and he will be pardoned. If it is an elaborate lie, he will be cast to the darkest, deepest prison in creation until the end of time. My father's patience for Loki's tricks has run out. He sent me here as soon as the bargain was struck."

After several seconds of silence, Steve shook his head. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but it looks like your brother's going to walk." At Thor's puzzled look, Steve clarified, "He's going to be freed."

"How can you know this?"

And Fury explained what they had been doing for the last several days. He finished with, "Now the two barrels are missing."

"So's Dr. Banner," Natasha added. Fury whipped around to look at her. "I was trying to tell you that when we got here. We can't find him. He's not answering his phone or his texts. The intern said he'd been heading to an offsite storage location, but we don't have any of those."

Fury apparently thought that was as concerning as Natasha had. "When was the last time you heard from him?"

"Around 2:00. The intern in the biochem lab said he left after 3:00, with one of the other biochemists. Dr. Lucas."

"Do you think Banner's disappearance has anything to do with the missing barrels?"

"I...don't know. It's too early to tell. But it seems kind of strange, all the same."

Fury nodded. It was just after 6:00 now. "Call Stark. See if he can trace Banner's location. Then bring Thor over there; Stark needs to hear what's going on. I'll see what I can find on Lucas. We'll figure out our next steps once we've got a read on Banner's location. Fuck, if those two just wandered off to Starbucks for 3 hours, I am going to be _pissed_."

Despite his words, though, Fury looked more concerned than anything else.

* * *

When Tony ran the GPS trace, he found Bruce's location pretty quickly.

It was in a lake. In the middle of the forest. Miles away from civilization.

Tony _really _hoped that didn't mean that Bruce himself was in the lake as well.

_Can the Other Guy even drown..._?

* * *

Bruce thought that he had learned a valuable lesson today. Actually, several valuable lessons. He really hoped that the rest of his day turned out in such a manner that he would get the opportunity to apply these lessons in the future.

The lessons were as follows:

1. If someone says they need to show you something at an offsite storage location, make sure that offsite storage location actually _exists _before getting into a car with them.  
2. If you think that you have traveled an unreasonable distance to reach said offsite storage facility, you probably have.  
3. Even if you sometimes turn into a green rage monster, the power balance in an interaction always seems to tilt towards the person holding a gun to your head.  
4. Check to make sure you are not being kidnapped before leaving well-populated areas and heading deep into the forest.

Bruce really wished he would have thought of number four, at least, sooner than he had.

Because it was too late now.

* * *

As it turns out, Thursdays are just going to be unrelentingly stupid this semester. But posting makes me feel better.

You know what else makes me feel better? Reviews. Yup.


	17. Break ins and Breakthroughs

Warnings: language, mostly. The usual sorts of stuff.

Thanks to my beta, irite, for ceaseless epicosity.

I do not own The Avengers.

* * *

"What do you _mean _Bruce is in a lake?" Natasha sounded incredulous.

Tony clarified, "I didn't say _he _was in a lake, I said his GPS location is in a lake. Honestly, Romanoff, don't you listen?"

She glared at him. But before she could hurl the undoubtedly cutting and witty comeback she had prepared, Steve stepped in. "Okay, Tony, what does that mean, exactly?"

Tony heaved a sigh at Steve's technical ineptitude. "It means that his phone, at least, is in this lake." Tony pointed at the map he'd pulled up on one of the many screens in his lab. "It hasn't moved in the last 25 minutes. So, I'm _hoping_ that means that it's _just _his phone in the lake. Because if Bruce is in the lake with it, he hasn't moved in almost half an hour, and that's, uh, bad."

He sounded as flippant as usual, but he looked strained, and Natasha could detect a strong undercurrent of worry coursing through his words. She supplied, "I think we should start there, then. At the lake."

Steve nodded, and Tony began to pack up, quickly syncing the necessary data with JARVIS. Thor, though, looked unsure. "Is it wise to make Dr. Banner our top priority? From what my brother has told me of the Chitauri's blood, I think it is most prudent that we locate that first."

Tony looked miffed at Thor's apparent lack of concern for Bruce, but then it occurred to him that, of all of them, Bruce was probably the least likely to come to harm in his current situation. Still, though, he couldn't let Thor's insensitivity go unaddressed. Because, of course, Tony Stark was a paragon of sensitivity. "Don't be a dick, Point Break, Bruce—"

Clint, surprisingly, interrupted him. He had been lingering towards the back of the group (well, maybe not 'lingering'...it had been more like 'fidgeting excessively'), secretly relishing having their focus on something else for once, even as awful as the circumstances were. Now, though, he pointed out, "But we don't have any clues about the blood. We _do _have a lead on Banner. And...one's probably going to lead to the other, anyway."

They all turned and stared at him, silent. Defensive, he growled, "_What_?"

Tony shook his head. "Sorry, Barton, kinda forgot you were here."

Clint's first reaction, as was the case so often of late, was a bright flash of anger. He reigned that in quickly, though (_don't be irrational, Barton, now's not the time_), instead attempting a smile that ended up looking more like a strained grimace. "Yeah. Sorry. But I'm pretty sure they'll be together."

Natasha agreed with him, but she was curious. "Why do you say that?"

Clint nodded towards Tony. "Stark said that Banner was the only person who had accessed the files from here, and his security system wasn't breached, either. Building security was all good, too."

Tony was floored; he hadn't even thought Clint had been listening to, let alone retaining, his running monologue on his security scans earlier—he'd mostly been talking for the sake of hearing his own voice. He hadn't thought Clint had been _capable _of listening. The archer had been completely strung out, had cracked only a short time later. Yet even in that condition, he'd been paying attention, gathering information, processing. It was...impressive. Intimidating, even.

But Natasha acted like it was completely mundane. She just looked thoughtful. "So, the changes would have had to have been made at the other end?"

"That's what I was thinking, yeah. And Lucas could have done it easily."

"Don't you think it's a little early to be accusing people?" Steve interjected, looking affronted. "I mean, that's your co-worker you're accusing of kidnapping and who knows what else!"

"Give it a rest, Cap," Tony said, tossing a few more miscellaneous items, including what looked like a pencil sharpener, into the bag slung over his shoulder. "It wouldn't be the first time someone's co-worker went completely nuts on the job and started taking people out—"

He cut himself off abruptly, aware (and actually caring, for once) that he had just made a faux pas. Clint took it in stride, though. At least, as close to 'in-stride' as he took anything anymore; he 'strode' out the door without a backwards glance.

Natasha growled, "Nice, Stark," before following after Clint.

The door swooshed shut behind her. After a beat of pressing silence, Thor asked, "What is it that ails Barton? He is not well."

He had addressed his question at Steve, but it was Tony who answered. "Huh. Noticed that, did you?" Since the demigod's arrival, Clint had circled the lab no less than eight times, had rearranged a display of Tony's doodads twice, had broken into an impressive sweat, had snapped at Natasha, Tony, and Steve, and had needed to sit down with his head between his knees twice. It wasn't exactly subtle that something was up with him.

Thor bristled, and Tony decided he'd better just spit it out, get it over with before Thor decided it was hammer time. "He's all fucked up after the shit your brother did to him."

Well, that hadn't been _quite_ what he had wanted to say. He'd been trying to _defuse _the situation. Whoops.

Annoyed that he once again was apparently being relegated to the role of 'peacekeeper,' Steve explained (with a pointed glare at Tony), "What Tony means is that, uh..." He realized that he didn't know if Thor would have any kind of frame of reference for drug use and addiction. Hell, _he _barely did. That seemed like a good place to start, so he asked, "Do the people on Asgard ever get drunk?"

Thor, who had been looking irate after Tony's last remark, seemed momentarily disconcerted, then laughed. "Indeed they do, Captain. There is no finer mead to be found in all of the realms than that which comes from Asgard. But why do you ask?"

Tony realized where Steve was trying to go with this. "Do they ever do stuff that's like getting drunk, but isn't?"

Thor looked puzzled, but slowly his expression cleared. "I believe I know what you are asking. Yes, there are many means of intoxication available on Asgard, with different effects. Some are more...potent than others."

Tony wasn't surprised; drug use had been ubiquitous on Earth throughout history, and he didn't think that the Asgardians were really all that superior to them in terms of habits and vices, no matter what Thor might say about the subject. "Good. Great. So, think of it this way. Barton started using this stuff that let him stay awake for days at a time. Now he's trying to stop using it, but it's not going too well. His body got used to functioning with that shit in his system, and now that it's gone it's pretty awful for him. Apparently."

Thor nodded slowly. "I see. But why would he deny himself sleep?"

"Because he's all fucked up after what your brother—"

Steve interrupted him before he could finish that charming thought for the second time. "It's complicated. But he blames himself for what he did when Loki was controlling him. He's afraid if he loses control, like if he goes to sleep, he's going to do all of that stuff again."

"So he started using that shit to stop sleeping, and it killed his appetite, so he stopped eating. Then he decided to give up the drugs. Then he decided to give up living, but Steve here managed to put a stop to that. Now Barton's on three different kinds of medication, and I don't think he's managed to keep a meal down in three days because he's having panic attacks every five minutes and puking—"

Steve put a hand on Tony's shoulder, quieting the tirade that had been growing progressively louder and more aggressive. The billionaire fell into a sulky silence.

Looking as if he were in physical pain, Thor closed his eyes and bowed his head. He wasn't quite clear what 'medication' was, and 'panic attack' was an unknown quantity as well, but he could tell from Stark's other words and tone that the situation with Barton was grave indeed. "I had not realized the extent of the evil my brother had wrought. This is most distressing!"

"Yeah, you think?" Tony knew that all of this wasn't Thor's fault, but he was the closest thing to Loki, and Tony needed to be pissed off at _someone_. He was still rattled from the incident with Clint less than an hour ago. He hadn't gotten the chance to decompress from that before this new shit had started, and now he was just a _bit _edgy.

Thor looked like he was going to say something defensive, but Natasha stuck her head in the door before he and Tony could go back to their posturing. "Are you guys coming or what? We have to move. Stark, I need a word with you."

Tony didn't like being singled out. But the three men just looked at each other before following Natasha out of the lab and down to the parking garage.

* * *

Tony's remark had been tasteless, but it hadn't actually upset Clint that much. Just enough to send his heartrate up a notch, to make him sure that he needed to get out of that room _now_.

But, he hadn't even thrown up. That was progress.

Clint was unsurprised when Natasha caught up to him. He hadn't gone that far; only to the atrium in front of the elevator. He'd thought vaguely of heading up to the roof, but he thought it was going to be a _long _time before anyone would trust him up there alone. To avoid the kind of drama he and Tony had earlier, he instead opted to slump down into one of the atrium's chairs.

Natasha flopped next to him a second later. "You okay?"

He nodded, then shrugged. Then shook his head.

She sighed. "Thanks for clarifying that, Clint."

He chuckled, but sobered quickly. "It was just a surprise. What he said. Shouldn't have been; he's an ass. I'll do better."

Natasha sighed again. "You're doing fine, Clint. Really. No one's expecting..."

He shook his head, interrupting her, "I fucked up earlier. I found my pills in your room, Tasha."

She stiffened. "What happened?"

"Not much. I took some. Stark thought I took them all, made me puke. Flushed the rest."

She relaxed a minute amount, but then became more rigid. "He flushed the rest?"

Her tone was edged with panic, and Clint did not know why. "Yeah. What's wrong?"

"Clint...we've been cutting down slowly."

It still wasn't clicking for him. "I know that. Christ, Tasha."

"Do you have any more of those pills?"

Now he was getting pissed off. "What the fuck, Nat? No. That was it. Jesus, do you think I've been hiding them on you?"

"What? No. Clint. Look. We were weaning you off that shit so that the withdrawal wouldn't be as bad. But now we're out."

And _now_ it clicked. "Oh, _fuck_." He looked at his watch. It was about 7:30. He had less than five hours until his next dose—which wasn't going to come.

Now Natasha had _no _idea what to do. She'd been iffy about bringing Clint along on the rescue mission, but she'd agreed when Tony had insisted. Tony said Clint needed the distraction, and now Natasha knew why—he'd nearly relapsed.

But now there was no way she could bring Clint along. In approximately five hours, the tenuous control he had over his symptoms would start to break. And his other issues would resurface. The anxiety that plagued him was made worse by withdrawal; without the continuing low dose of the drug, Natasha knew it would become even more pronounced. He had meds for it, now, but being stoned on a prescription benzodiazepine wasn't really a viable option, either. Not if he was going to be able to keep himself safe. That, along with the mood swings, the anger, the sheer pain he was going to be in...she could _not _let him come.

As she considered all of that, Clint did some considering of his own. The look on his face could be best described as "stricken." He knew _exactly _what was going to happen to him in terms of his symptoms, and he was...distressed.

"It's already...if it's going to get worse...Nat, I can't do this."

She'd heard that before, and things had gone very badly shortly thereafter.

But he was going to have to do it. And without her. Without any of them. The safety net they had been constructing for days had been suddenly ripped into pieces, and she hated herself for what she was going to do to him.

"You have to stay here, Barton."

He looked, if possible, more upset. "What? Nat, no, you can't just leave me here—" he choked out.

Natasha knew he was right. He couldn't be alone. Not with what was going to happen to him in a few hours. "We'll take you back to SHIELD, then. They'll be able to help you, there's medication that can help. It'll be okay, I promise."

Clint did not seem reassured. In fact, he looked on the verge of breaking down completely. But they didn't have _time_ for that. "Clint, it's too dangerous for you to come like this. You are _falling apart_. If you can't take care of yourself, you have no business in the field. You _know _that. And don't tell me you'll be able to take care of yourself. You can't. Not like this."

He knew it was true. Oh, God, it was _so _true. But... "SHIELD, Tasha?"

She hated it, too. "Do you have a better idea?"

He didn't.

"Okay. I'll go grab the others. Wait for me here, I'll be back in a minute." She walked down the hall, casting frequent looks over her shoulder to make sure he hadn't moved.

He didn't, opting to sit quietly, trying to still the trembling that had begun in his fingertips. He wondered, as he had several times in the last few days, if it was possible to hate himself more than he did in that precise moment.

_You're completely _useless_, Barton. Completely fucking useless._

It was an old, familiar refrain, one that only grew louder and more persistent as he followed Natasha and the other Avengers to the parking garage.

* * *

Bruce prided himself on the fact that he did not Hulk Out every time someone pointed a gun at him. At the moment, he was pretty irritated, might even be nudging his way up into 'anger,' but he was still completely in control.

Still, he felt compelled to say, "You know I have a, uh, 'condition,' right?"

Lucas shot him a long, hard look. "Yeah, Banner. Who doesn't?"

Bruce considered pointing out that it would take a special brand of stupid to kidnap someone who, when angry, became a hugely violent and destructive monster. He thought better of it, though. He didn't want to provoke Lucas into shooting him—it wouldn't kill him, but he'd Hulk Out, and then he wouldn't be able to gather any useful information at _all_.

Of course, he wasn't having much success in gathering information at the moment. Lucas had been pretty quiet about his plans, offering him only a smarmy "You'll see" when Bruce had asked him where they were going. When Bruce asked about the 'why,' Lucas hadn't said anything at all. So, maybe he _should _just break out of here. But...he really wanted to know what Lucas was planning. He'd hold out for awhile longer.

Bruce had been a little annoyed when Lucas had suddenly demanded his phone 20 miles ago and had pulled over to toss it into a nearby lake. Bruce knew Tony could trace it via GPS. Still, it had taken Lucas over two hours to reach the same conclusion, so that would get Tony and the others pretty close. Assuming that Lucas was going to stop soon. Which Bruce didn't know for sure, but the gas tank indicated that they were either getting close to their destination, or that Lucas planned to stop to fill up somewhere—and that was _so _hard to do with a hostage.

It seemed like a pretty safe bet that they were nearly there.

So Bruce sat quietly in the passenger's seat, watching the passing scenery and trying to get a feel for their location.

After a few minutes of silence, Lucas spoke. "I was hoping to get Stark, actually."

Bruce was not surprised; everyone _always _wanted Tony. In this case, Bruce found that his feelings were not particularly hurt, though. "Yeah? Why?"

"Publicity would be better. And he doesn't have a 'condition.' But this will work out. That group of fucking freaks will come for you, and I'll just get them _all, _then. It might be better."

The phrase 'get them all' wasn't one that Bruce found particularly comforting. "Get them all...for what?"

But Lucas didn't answer.

Another ten minutes, and they pulled off the road onto a long dirt driveway. At the end, there was a large cabin. It was two stories, with stunning windows that spanned the entire front of the building, offering a panoramic view of the surrounding forest. One more car was parked out front, and Bruce could see another partially obscured by some foliage. Lucas pulled in next to the other car and cut the engine. He pulled the gun out of his coat and pointed it at Bruce. "Welcome to my little forest getaway. Now get in the fucking house."

With a sigh, Bruce complied.

Lucas guided him inside, past what Bruce assumed was the living room and kitchen, and led him to a staircase that went down into the basement. He maneuvered Bruce down the stairs. At the bottom, seemingly out of nowhere, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and fastened one of the cuffs to a pipe running across the low ceiling. The other, of course, went around Bruce's wrist.

_Wonderful._

Without saying a single word, Lucas turned and left him there. As he headed back upstairs, Bruce gave his restraints an experimental tug, but the cuffs held. Unless he let Other Guy out, then, he was going to be stuck here. And he wasn't going to do that until he knew who those other cars belonged to, who else was in the cabin. He was a _responsible _rage monster, damn it.

Bruce thought, _Well, at least he left the light on_. He went back into information-gathering mode, surveying the room.

It was mostly empty, except for the usual basement decor, like a furnace and water heater, washer and dryer.

And also what he presumed were the missing barrels from SHIELD, along with about 15 of their friends.

_Oh, now this is just _great.

* * *

Natasha chewed Tony out, which Clint didn't think the billionaire strictly deserved. Then she'd called Fury and explained the situation, and he'd given them the go-ahead for the rescue mission. As for Clint, he had suggested that Natasha "Call fucking medical and tell them they're babysitting Barton's ass."

She had, and then they had all piled into the huge black SUV that Natasha had checked out from SHIELD. It was a bit of a tight fit, but even Tony didn't complain about the situation, which Natasha found astounding. He'd just sat quietly, doing something on his phone.

Clint was also uncharacteristically quiet, fiddling with the windows and tapping his fingers nervously on his thighs, but otherwise sitting reasonably still. Natasha wasn't sure she liked that.

Still, she didn't have too much time to dwell on it. The drive was quick, and she soon pulled up in front of SHIELD, near the doors of the medical wing. She looked at Clint. "They're expecting you. Do you want me to come in with you?"

He glared back at her, and opened the door. "No. I'm fine." He got out and walked around to the back of the car and grabbed his bag from the trunk, slamming the hatch with unnecessary force. He returned to the other door and moved to slam it, too.

Before he could, though, Natasha said, "We'll be back soon, Clint. Just—"

He closed the door, cutting her off, and stalked towards the building. With a sigh, Natasha put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb.

* * *

Clint looked quickly over his shoulder and watched Natasha drive away. When she turned the corner, he made an abrupt change of course, heading away from the doors to the medical wing. He circled the building, using his security code to enter through the doors that would lead him to the stairs down to the locker rooms.

He had decided, on the ride over, that he was _done_ being fucking useless. He could decide what was safe for him, what he could handle. That should be up to _him_, damn it. And he could do this.

It was after hours, and there weren't many people around. The few who did see him either didn't know him or thought he belonged there. He made it down to the locker rooms with no trouble. Clint dumped out the bag he had packed, stuffing the clothes and other personal crap into his locker. He pulled out his bow and quiver and placed them in the bag, and then threw in a couple of guns. He found his uniform and all his accoutrement, and quickly changed, fighting off a wave of dizziness and the accompanying irritation. Once it passed, he surveyed his locker and quickly added a pair of knives to his ensemble.

Great. But he needed one more thing. And it was going to be a little tricky to acquire.

Clint took the elevator to the appropriate floor, resting his head against the cool metal of the doors as he rode up. The first set of double doors on the floor was locked, but that was just a momentary inconvenience—although, compared to how quickly he could usually pick a lock, it took him an eternity. He wound his way through the hallways, checking around corners as he reached them to make sure there was no one around. He carefully avoided a pair of janitors and one lingering medical transcriptionist, and he soon found himself outside of his destination—the pharmacy.

The lock on _that _door was significantly more complicated. But not insurmountably so. Picking it gave him time to reconsider his choices.

_You know, there's an easier way to do this_.

But this was how _he'd _decided to do it.

He had the door open in a matter of moments.

He made his way back to the storage area and began a quick perusal of the shelves, hoping that they had what he needed. _Fucking SHIELD has everything, so they damn well better have this_...

Of course, they did.

Clint took the bottle off the shelf, and handily located the smaller bottles that prescriptions were usually dispensed in. He filled one, and placed the larger bottle back in its spot.

He was about to stuff the smaller bottle in his bag, but he was seized with a sudden visceral _need _that was so violent that it took his breath away.

_They are in your _hand_, Barton_.

That was true. They were. A whole fucking bottle's worth, right there, and no one around to stop him. He could fix all of his problems, kill this headache, stop the shakes, the muscle pain, the _anger _that kept flaring up at all the wrong moments. He could stop it so damn fast, go back to "normal" in less than a half hour.

He uncapped the bottle, shaking out four of the pills.

And stopped.

Because this _wasn't_ going to fix his problems. He'd still be a fucking mess, terrified of sleeping, afraid of screwing up, paralyzed by anxiety half the damn time. This wasn't a solution, it would just prolong the damn problem. He needed this shit, he couldn't deny that, but he _could_ control the _when_ and the _why_ and the _how much_. He could _choose_, and it was about time to make the right damn choice.

Slowly, Clint put the pills back into the bottle. With more energy, he capped it and shoved it in his bag. He looked at his watch. It was 8:30. So, three and a half hours until his next dose. He could do that.

He ignored the suddenly intensified throbbing in his head and the whisper at the back of mind that was insisting _No you can't_. He didn't have time for any of that. He had a job to do.

He slipped out of the medical wing the same way he'd slipped in. He was more careful, though, knowing that they'd probably be looking for him by now—medical had been expecting him, after all, and they were _not _going to be happy that they had lost a drug-addled, anxiety-stricken assassin.

Stealthily, Clint made his way down to the motor pool to 'borrow' a car. He picked one out, and, using the license plate number, set his GPS to track the SUV the others were in. _God bless government paranoia,_ he thought, as a glowing dot appeared on the display. _Keeping all of these cars linked_.

He pulled onto the street and began the drive towards Bruce's last known location.

* * *

You guys are lucky I wrote most of this chapter early in the week. If I had written it yesterday or today, I probably would have killed everyone and ended the story there. But I'm going to go nurse my sprained ankle, curse my ecology class, and try to find $1600 to fix my car instead of re-writing this chapter to add in some death and destruction.

Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing and following and favoriting. These things make me happy.


	18. Over the River and Through the Woods

Warnings: language, mention of drug use, mad scientists.

Thanks to irite for keeping me on my toes in terms of plot holes.

I do not own The Avengers. But I will on Tuesday. On Blu-Ray...

* * *

For almost an hour, Bruce stood in the basement of the cabin trying to find a position that was just 'uncomfortable' instead of 'unbearable.' With one arm fastened to a pipe above his head, his options were limited, but he eventually twisted in a way that had his arm resting against the top of his head, and that ended up being his best choice.

Once he got settled, he set to pondering the possible implications of the numerous barrels of the toxic chemical on the other side of the room.

He had a few hypotheses. None of them boded particularly well. The huge amount of the toxic chemical, plus his kidnapping at gunpoint, plus the somewhat deranged way that Lucas had talked about "getting the others," mostly led to a lot of really bad conclusions.

Bruce tried really hard to think of a situation in which all of this could coalesce into something that _didn't_ end in probable death and destruction (_although probably not mine_, Bruce thought with a smirk), but he couldn't, and in the end he had to concede that this was, in all likelihood, going to go very, very badly.

A few minutes after Bruce had come to that conclusion, Lucas descended into the basement with another man in tow. Bruce did not recognize him. The pair conversed quietly for a moment in what sounded like Russian before slowly approaching and circling him cautiously.

Their caution seemed a little ridiculous. After all, he wasn't Clint or Natasha; his acrobatic abilities were pretty much non-existent, so it wasn't like he could do a lot of damage in his current fastened-to-the-plumbing state. And if he _did _get it in his head to do some damage, their caution would be completely useless.

Really, when you thought about it that way, it was kind of audacious that they were doing this at all. What kind of ego did it take to kidnap and then hold hostage someone who could easily smash his captors and then obliterate half of the damn forest on top of it?

Bruce, who was rapidly losing patience with the situation, decided to point this out. "You know, I'm not really sure what you're doing, but I think you're depending an awful lot on the assumption that I'm not going to get...angry."

Lucas growled dismissively, "Shut up, Banner," and then resumed his conversation with his companion.

It was _definitely _in Russian.

But now Bruce was downright annoyed, and completely dumbfounded at the _idiocy_ of these morons. It defied reason. _No one _could really be stupid enough to do this.

Still, he was a scientist, and he liked to collect information before jumping to conclusions. So he went fishing. "You're serious? Really. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just break out of here."

Lucas rolled his eyes and glared at him. "There's a nearby civilian population, Banner. A town, about a mile farther north. Women, children, puppies, the whole nine yards. Wouldn't want them to get hurt, am I right? So you'd better just sit tight."

Bruce scowled. He had no way of knowing if that was true or not, and he couldn't risk it until he did. His control had been getting better, but it still wasn't to a point that he'd be comfortable rampaging around children. _Damn it_.

"Anyway, it shouldn't be too much longer 'til your friends get here. They should get to the lake where I dropped your phone in another hour or so, then it's not much farther. I imagine Stark would have eventually worked out where we went; he's pretty smart. But I left some pretty obvious clues just in case. Had to make sure they all made it here; I wouldn't want them to miss the fun."

Huh. Apparently Lucas wasn't nearly as stupid as Bruce had assumed. He'd let Bruce hold on to his phone for as long as he had because he'd been leading the other Avengers along, not because he was completely incompetent. And if he wasn't completely incompetent, then he might actually be _competent_, and that meant that he might actually be a legitimate threat.

_Great. Now he's back up to 'potential evil genius' instead of 'useless henchman._' _That's just wonderful_.

Lucas turned away from Bruce and led his Russian companion over to the barrels. They conversed, and gestured, and after a few more minutes they both headed back upstairs. This time, Lucas shut off the light, and Bruce found himself in complete darkness.

He sighed.

* * *

"Okay, okay...stop. Here." Natasha pulled off the road, and Tony shoved his phone into his pocket and hopped out of the car. In the two hours they'd been driving, the sun had gone down and the forest around them was completely dark and silent except for the splash of headlights against the trees and the low rumbling of the idling engine.

The others followed him, and Natasha opened up the trunk and dug around, emerging a moment later with flashlights. She handed them out.

"Stark. What's the situation?"

Tony pulled his phone out again, examined the screen, then shined his flashlight up ahead. "There's a path up there; I think it goes down to the lake."

Steve nodded, taking charge. "All right. Why don't you and Thor head down and check it out? Natasha and I will see if we can find any clues up here. If you're not back in ten minutes, we'll come looking for you."

Tony rolled his eyes. It was so typical of Steve to stick him and Thor together when he knew that they got along about as well as sulfuric acid and sodium hydroxide. Still, he beckoned for the demigod to follow. "Come on, hammer time, let's go see if Bruce drowned." He headed towards the path.

"Wait, aren't you going to suit up first?" Steve asked.

Tony rolled his eyes again. "Not if I'm going to have to get back in the car in five minutes. Have you ever tried to get comfortable wearing a full suit of armor? It just doesn't fucking happen."

Steve had to concede that he had never tried, and decided to take Tony's (unnecessarily vulgar) word. "Okay. But be careful."

"You're sending me with a damn demigod for a bodyguard, Rogers, I think we'll be fine."

The pair disappeared into the woods, and Steve could hear Tony not-so-patiently trying to explain the cultural significance of the phrase "hammer time." Steve shook his head—he personally didn't understand half the things that Tony said, but he admired Thor's efforts towards comprehension.

With Natasha, he walked up and down the stretch of road, trying to find some useful piece of evidence. Their search didn't reveal anything except some faint tire tracks by the side of the road, so they made their way back to the parked car.

Tony was leaning casually against it with a small rectangle of paper in his hand while Thor stood next to him, holding Tony's phone in the air over his head. It made for an interesting picture.

Steve walked up to the billionaire. "What's up?"

"Bruce's dead body isn't in the lake. So that's good. I was just getting ready to hack some government satellites to track any movement through this stretch of forest in the last two hours, but that plan was rendered unnecessary by this." He held up the paper.

It was a receipt, made out to Dr. John Lucas, for a car rental. Some kind of industrial van, from the looks of it.

"So we know he was here," Steve noted. "But how is this useful?"

Tony pointed at the bottom of the receipt. "It has his phone number on it. One that he never gave to SHIELD."

Natasha butted in. "How do you know that?"

Tony quirked an eyebrow. Natasha decided that she didn't really want to know when, why, or how Stark had managed to get into their records.

Steve still didn't know how this was useful information. "Okay, so...?"

Tony heaved a huge sigh. "Rogers. Really? _Clearly, _he wanted to keep this number secret—he never gave it to SHIELD. So, it's like his secret-evil-criminal-cell number, right? He's probably got that phone on him right now. I just need to trace its location. Which I'm doing." He gestured at Thor. "Data signal out here is pretty bad, though, so Thor's lending a hand."

"How much longer must I remain in this position, Stark?" Thor inquired with remarkable patience.

Tony craned his neck and peered up at the phone. "You're done. Hand it over."

Thor obliged. Tony tapped a few things on the screen. "Great. Got a location. Let's go."

"Wait," Natasha said. "Doesn't this seem awfully...convenient?"

"What do you mean, Romanoff?"

"That this was just sitting there, waiting for us." She looked at Steve. "How do we know it's not a trap?"

They all considered that in silence. Tony spoke up first, "Well, if it's a trap, is there really anything we can do about it? It's the only lead we have. Otherwise we're just going to keep sitting in the middle of this damn forest all night."

Steve nodded. "He's right." The admittance was clearly hard to make, but Steve persevered. "We'll keep moving. If it's a trap...we'll handle it."

That was the kind of plan that Tony could appreciate. "Great! Let's go." He hopped back into the car, as did the others, albeit with more reluctance.

Natasha tried to ignore her growing sense of foreboding as they closed in on their destination.

* * *

For the sixth time in two hours, Clint was questioning his decision to operate a motor vehicle.

He had been half an hour or so behind the others when he started, but they had stopped for gas and gotten stuck in a traffic jam he missed, and then he had exceeded the speed limit rather egregiously, so he had mostly caught up with them after an hour. He had been keeping pretty far back for awhile so that his headlights didn't give him away.

However, the other car had stopped, and it took him an inordinate amount of time to notice. Consequently, he had just nearly blown his own cover.

It was only the latest clue of many that indicated he had no business operating heavy machinery.

He'd almost fallen asleep, of all things, twice. Apparently driving was very soothing, and he knew that his body was exhausted from all of the shit he'd been putting it through. So even if his mind viewed sleep as something immensely undesirable, his body had a different idea. And it was getting _really _hard to ignore.

Another rather unequivocal hint that maybe he should have taken the bus or something had come about an hour into the drive, when he'd gotten so distracted by the series of fucking annoying songs on the radio that he'd nearly gone careening into ditch before he remembered, 'Oh yeah, I'm driving.'

And half an hour after that, someone had cut him off and then slowed down to 45 m.p.h., and that sent him into a fit of rage that nearly ended in a homicide. Although Clint liked to believe that he wouldn't have _really_ shot the other driver (or even her front tires), even if a gun _had _somehow found a way into his hand.

Yeah, he shouldn't have been driving. He _knew _that. He _knew_ he was strung out, something that was only becoming harder to ignore with the passing time. What had been an unpleasant set of symptoms two hours ago was rapidly escalating into 'fucking unbearable' now, and his shaking, sweating, and ceaseless throbbing headache were making it _really _hard to manage the basics.

Like staying on the road, for example. And if he couldn't do that, he had no idea how he was going manage the more arduous events the night surely had in store.

Unless, of course, he...

No. Not yet. He was determined to make it through all the way to midnight before he gave in.

Although, how much difference was there between 10:45 and midnight _really_?

He had gritted his teeth against that thought and redoubled his efforts at not falling apart, which had distracted him from the task at hand, which had led to him nearly give himself away. A series of truly unfortunate events. But Clint managed to _not _blow his cover, somehow, which he attributed more to luck than to any particular skill on his part, and he parked and waited patiently until the little dot on his GPS began moving again before slowly following. Clint was surprised they had gotten new bearings so quickly, but then he figured that Tony had found some overly complicated way to track Bruce's exact location. That man could do some frightening things with technology.

As he drove, Clint briefly considered suggesting to the billionaire that he have all of the Avengers microchipped with GPS tags in case this ever happened again.

Smirking at the idea, Clint tracked the other car as it wound through the forest. They traveled for half an hour and almost 30 miles from the lake before they stopped abruptly.

This time, Clint noticed immediately.

He was maybe half a mile back. He considered driving closer, but decided against it, instead pulling off the road. He watched the GPS for another five minutes, but the other car didn't move again, and so Clint decided that this was probably their destination. He made a note of the coordinates and grabbed a flashlight from the glovebox—he didn't intend to use it, but it might come in handy. Then, he got out of the car and grabbed his gear from the back seat.

When he went for his bag, his hand hovered over the pouch containing his pills.

_Forty-five more minutes, that's all. Fucking Christ, Barton, stop being so damn pathetic_.

Easier said than done, really, but he didn't reach in for his pills and he considered that a _damn _good start.

Clint moved quickly down the road. He wasn't careless, though; he stayed alert, listening for the sounds of approaching cars or people. The forest around him was quiet. Even the cricket chirps were few and far between. Still, he focused intensely, well, at least as intensely as he was able, making sure that he remained obscured in the shadows and moved silently. He checked his handheld GPS unit frequently to make sure he didn't overshoot his goal.

He had made it all the way to the foot of the lengthy driveway when he heard a gun go off.

* * *

Bruce watched with some apprehension as Lucas led two big, burly guys into the basement. Lucas made a vague gesture towards the barrels and instructed them, "Be careful, okay? We don't want to have an _incident_." The two men nodded and lifted one of the barrels between them, bringing it upstairs. They returned a moment later for another, continuing in this vein until they'd taken about half of the barrels.

"That's it, boss," said one of the men on their last return. "Can't fit no more."

Lucas waved him off. "Thanks. We'll take care of it from here. Why don't you go wait for our guests?"

The pair obediently returned upstairs, taking another one of the barrels with them.

When they had gone, Lucas turned and smiled at Bruce. "We're about to get started. Do you want to go first, or do you want to let your friends try it out for you?"

Neither option sounded particularly appealing. "Try what out, exactly?"

Instead of answering, Lucas walked to the other side of the room. He rummaged around in a box sitting on the ground next to the barrels, pulling out a rubber apron, a pair of heavy-duty elbow-length rubber gloves, and a plastic face shield, all of which he donned.

Bruce had a sudden bad feeling that he knew where this was going. Still, he asked, "What are you doing? And where's your Russian friend?"

Without turning, Lucas said, "Oh, him? He's waiting upstairs. He prefers to leave the hands on stuff to us peons. Kind of an asshole, really, but he's been useful."

"Yeah? What's he done for you?"

Lucas faced him abruptly. "Do you have any idea how dangerous you are, Banner?"

That was a stupid question. "Of course I do, I'm—"

Lucas interrupted. "Not just _you._ All of the 'Avengers.' Fucking superheroes, right? What _is _that, anyway?"

Bruce considered pointing out that personally, he was more of an unfortunate lab accident than a superhero, but he refrained. It seemed like Lucas was _finally _ready to monologue, and Bruce wanted to hear every word.

"So you all come in to save the world, like it never occurred to you that fighting a _god_ with an alien _army _was bound to be a bad fucking idea."

"Well, compared to the alternative—"

"Shut up, Banner. The alternative? What, the subjugation of the human race? Yeah, that might have sucked. But it might have been okay. And my family might still be alive instead of being crushed underneath the south wall of our apartment. Right?"

Well, that explained at least _some_ of this. "I'm sorry for your loss, but you should really blame _Loki_—"

"Shut up, Banner."

Bruce was getting _really _tired of hearing that.

Lucas continued, "Loki? Please. If you hadn't fought him, half of Manhattan wouldn't have been destroyed. You fucking superheroes are a damn menace, and soon the public will know it like I do."

Lucas pulled several large syringes out of the box on the floor and, wrenching the top off of one of the barrels, carefully filled them with the thick liquid. He capped them. "You know what? Why don't you just wait here for your friends? I think that'll work best, after all. We're going to run into town for a few things. You should all come by later. I imagine it'll be...illuminating."

Without waiting for Bruce's response, he shed his protective gear (except for the gloves) and went back upstairs.

Bruce was, somehow, not at all surprised when he heard a gunshot a few moments later.

* * *

"This is it," Tony said, peering at the address marker by the side of the road.

Natasha drove past.

"Romanoff, that was it."

"Stark, we're not going to pull into the driveway. We're aiming for subtle."

Tony huffed and pointed at Steve, who was decked out in his star-spangled uniform, and Thor, who was wearing his battle armor. "I don't really think we've achieved that goal." He gestured towards the bracelets adorning his wrists, and added, "I don't really do subtle, either."

She glanced in the rearview mirror, and Steve shrugged apologetically. "He's right, Natasha."

With a sigh, she pulled over and threw the car into park. "Fine. Everyone out."

They exited the car and took a few moments to get adjusted. Tony finally got into his suit, Natasha checked her weapons and then, following Steve's lead, they all backtracked to the driveway.

_At least_, Natasha thought, _They are attempting to walk quietly_.

She found that she suddenly missed Clint terribly. Because _he _appreciated the need for stealth and could move through terrain almost silently. Unlike these idiots.

A twig snapped nearby. Natasha whipped around to glare at Tony, or Steve, or Thor, but they all looked as surprised as she did. "What—"

They were all suddenly completely doused in something sticky, something tacky, something that felt an awful lot like...congealed blood.

An empty barrel crashed to the ground nearby.

_Oh, shit_.

Natasha whipped her gun from its holster and fired a shot into the trees above them, where the liquid had come from. She was rewarded with a groan, and a man fell to the ground in front of them, clutching his arm. Natasha dispatched him with a quick kick to the head.

The branches above them rustled and another man jumped out of the tree. He landed heavily and tried to run, but Steve took him down with his shield.

Panting, Natasha looked around, but the silence around them was complete.

Until the door on the garage attached to the house opened, headlights flooded the area, and a large van peeled out of the garage and down the driveway, nearly taking the group out.

They dodged it. Stunned by the near-miss, they watched the van whip down the driveway.

"What the _fuck _just happened?" Tony asked, trying (and failing) to get the viscous liquid off his faceplate. He put the faceplate up, jerking away as the liquid ran down his face. He wiped at it frantically. "What _is_ this shit? Is it _the _shit?"

"Yeah, I have a funny feeling it is," Steve said, pulling out a flashlight and peering at his soaked uniform. "It's...green, though. Is it supposed to be green?"

No one had an answer for him.

"This is very strange," Thor declared after a moment's silence. "If these people have kidnapped Dr. Banner, why would they want to give us a weapon to use against them? My brother says this substance is a powerful elixir and will give us immense power."

Tony was always prepared with a hypothesis. "It's massively unpredictable, maybe—"

But Steve had a more pressing concern and interrupted him. "If these people kidnapped Bruce, did they just get away with him again? Let's check the house. We can try and figure out what's going on after we do that."

The others nodded, and so they made their way into the house. They checked the ground floor and upstairs, but it was apparently deserted. They were about to leave when Tony noticed a door in the kitchen that led down into the basement.

Where Bruce was standing, chained to a pipe, looking very patient.

"The fuck, Banner? Were you going to yell for help, or were you cool with just hanging out here all night?"

Bruce shrugged, as much as he could in his current position. "Sorry. I figured you'd come down here eventually. I didn't want to draw anyone else's attention..."

As he was talking, Natasha was working on picking the lock on his handcuffs. After a few seconds, she had freed him. He rubbed his wrist, then peered at the assembled Avengers.

"Are you _all_ covered in that crap?" he asked, gesturing to the barrels on the other side of the room and looking just a _little _panicked.

"Indeed, Banner, and it is most odd."

Bruce had actually begun to wring his hands. He chuckled nervously, "Not really."

"The Chitauri's blood is most potent, Dr. Banner, and will grant us great strength against our enemy—"

Bruce cut him off, and it was so uncharacteristic that everyone else froze to listen. "Chitauri blood. That's what this is? Well, I guess it doesn't matter. What matters is that Lucas is heading towards civilization. I'm not sure what he's going to do once he gets there, but it's not going to be good—he's completely lost it. And he's just made sure that it's going to be _damn_ hard for you guys to stop him." He stopped, then with a look of dawning comprehension exclaimed, "Oh, it makes perfect _sense_!"

No one else seemed to agree. Bruce decided to spell it out, since they hadn't had the benefit of hearing Lucas's monologue. "Look. Lucas is nuts. He thinks we killed his family, and he's trying to prove how dangerous superheroes are. So he doused you in this chemical that'll make it so everything you touch explodes or ignites, possibly including _people_. And now he's going to wreak some kind of havoc that we have to stop."

Tony picked up where Bruce had left off as Lucas' plan became clear. "Except if we try to stop him, we're going to end up causing all kinds of damage and destruction and mayhem. And if we _don't _try to stop him, then we look ineffectual and useless. It's a lose-lose; either way he wins...But you haven't been exposed, Bruce, why don't you just go smash him and stop this shit?"

Bruce chuckled again. "But damage-destruction-mayhem might as well be my middle name. So, I can't go stop him, not on my own. I'm just as likely to hurt someone inadvertently as all of you are, and he'll _still _win."

"Hold on," Steve spoke up. "No one's doing any smashing. We shouldn't do _anything _until we contact Fury. We're not here to foil some evil plan, we're here to rescue Bruce, and now we have—"

Tony interrupted him. "Is Captain Fucking America seriously saying that we _shouldn't _go save innocent civilians from God-knows-what? What the hell? Did getting doused in alien body fluids addle your brain—"

"Look, I'm not saying we should do _nothing_, we just need to check in with Fury, see if he can send back-up. There's probably a protocol for this, is all."

"There _is _a protocol," Natasha said. "But it's going to take the biohazard response team two hours to get out here, and that's going to be too damn late. If someone's going to stop that psycho before he hurts someone, it's going to have to be us."

"So what you're saying," Tony summarized, "Is that we're fucked."

"Seems that way," Clint observed from where he was leaning heavily against the doorframe.

* * *

Clint had not been impressed when he'd nearly been run over in the driveway. The car speeding off into the night hadn't paid him any mind, though, and Clint thought _that_ was just rude. If you nearly kill someone, you should really acknowledge them or _something_.

_Not that you want to be noticed right now._

And that was true. So he'd just continued his way up the driveway towards the house. But the light from the moon was inadequate, and despite his best attempts at focusing he was still completely fucking distracted, so he nearly tripped over the two unconscious men lying near a puddle of...something that was being rapidly absorbed into the ground.

Recovering his balance, he thought, _Wow. You're really doing a bang-up job with the spy/assassin gig. Just give it up, Barton. Why the _fuck _did you think you'd be useful here_?

But he refused to listen to himself, even as he acknowledged that he _probably_ had no business being here, that he'd _probably_ been a little rash in heading out this way (_You think?_). Instead, he maintained his efforts at stealth long enough to creep into the house unnoticed. Of course, he wasn't sure if that was an accomplishment—he didn't know if there was anyone there _to _notice him. Until he heard voices coming from below.

It was the others.

With a shrug, (because he knew he'd have to deal with them eventually) Clint made his way to the kitchen and found the door to the basement. He went down the stairs, arriving just in time to hear the end of Banner's explanation and Stark's response.

Descending the stairs had made him dizzy, so he leaned against the doorframe to wait for the ground to stop tilting.

Oblivious to Clint's presence, the group continued conversing until Tony finished, "So what you're saying is that we're fucked."

"Seems that way," Clint couldn't help replying. Six damn superheroes in a room and not _one _of them in any condition for heroics? What were the fucking odds?

The way everyone turned to look at him was almost funny.

* * *

Sorry this is late. Life is stupid. I couldn't work up the energy for doing all the micro-editing associated with posting. And I couldn't think of a chapter title.

Thanks to everyone for reviewing/following/favoriting/reading quietly and secretly like a creeper.

This was my longest chapter yet. And this chapter makes "Four Days" my longest story yet. You should celebrate by reviewing.


	19. Focus

Warnings: language, drug use.

Thanks to my beta, irite, for keeping a weathered eye for the gaping plot holes that have tried to work their way into this story. I suppose it's bound to happen when you start mixing plot into your angst...

I do not own The Avengers.

* * *

For several seconds after Clint announced his presence, everyone stood in stunned silence.

It probably would have stretched on indefinitely, except Natasha's phone rang. She reached for it, then hesitated. "Shit."

"You're probably not toxic yet," Bruce supplied helpfully. "I'm _pretty _sure it needs to work its way into your excretory system before it's activated. But there might be gloves in that bag over there, just in case." He gestured across the room, then thought again. "Let me."

Bruce hurried over and dug through the bag, pulling out a single rubber glove and the now-empty box. Holding the glove open so she could slip her hand in, he mused, "Isn't it weird how these always come in odd numbers..."

Natasha got the glove on and went for her phone again, just in time for the call to go to voicemail.

With an irritated huff, she put the phone up to her ear, keeping it far enough away that it didn't touch her skin. She listened to the message. Halfway through, she gave Clint a long, hard stare. When she hung up, she flat-out glared at him. "Nice, Barton."

He, of course, had a pretty good idea what that phone call had been about. "What? I couldn't just let you—"

"Do our damn jobs? You're suspended, Clint, and for a good reason! Jesus, you could be fired for what you did. You could go to _jail_—"

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Woah, what?"

Clint at least had the decency to look chagrined. "I might have stolen a car. Well, actually, I borrowed it without going through the official channels, so it's not like I really _stole_—"

Natasha cut him off. "You stole a damn car, Clint? Jesus. That was medical on the phone, they wanted to let me know that you made a stop in the pharmacy, but didn't feel obliged to stick around. Did you really think they wouldn't notice?" She leveled a hard look at him. "Hand it over."

He sighed, but set his bag on the floor and rifled through it, pulling out the bottle he'd lifted earlier. With her gloved hand, Natasha snatched it from him, shoving it into her coat pocket. "Okay. Good. I need to call medical and tell them to call off the search for the missing agent. Then I need to call Fury, find out what he wants us to do. Then we can work on—"

But Clint interrupted her. "Nat," he began, hating the whine in his voice that he couldn't quite stifle, hating that there might be innocent civilian lives at stake at yet _this _was all he could think about, "It's almost midnight..."

She looked at her watch, then at him. "Five minutes, Barton. Let me call Fury." She sidestepped him and headed up the stairs.

The urge to reach out and strangle her as she passed was nearly overwhelming, but the pitying looks on the faces of everyone surrounding him acted as a sufficient deterrent. Instead, he muttered, "What are you all staring at?"

"Um, you. How did you even _get _here?" Tony asked, stepping closer and peering at him intently. "You look like shit."

"Tony!" Steve chastised him. He was unable to avoid voicing his own concerns, though, and asked, "Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?"

"Yes, Barton, please. Let us retire upstairs so you can rest," Thor advised, then added with a glance at Bruce, "Dr. Banner could probably use a respite as well."

Bruce shrugged. "One of us looks like we've been held hostage for the last eight hours or so, and it isn't me."

_Do I really look _that _bad_?

Bruce continued, "But yeah, I'd like to get out of the basement, at least. I don't suppose anyone found the bathroom...?"

They headed upstairs and, after advising the others to touch _nothing_, Bruce made his way to the bathroom. When he reappeared, everyone convened in the living room just in time to hear the tail-end of Natasha's conversation with Fury. "I don't think it's advisable. I think it's too dangerous. But if it's an order? It is. Okay. Yes, sir." She hung up and turned to face the rest of them. "You should sit down."

"Um, I don't think that's...advisable," Bruce stepped in before anyone could move. "Furniture's pretty flammable. But then, if you just don't touch it with your skin, it might be okay..."

No one was really willing to risk it, and so they arranged themselves so that they were standing in a loose circle instead. Except Bruce, who settled (with almost no smugness at all) into a chair.

"Tasha," Clint prodded, the word forming almost against his will. _Pathetic. _

With a sigh, she pulled out the bottle with her gloved hand and shook out a lonely pill. She offered it to Clint silently.

And he _tried _not to look too eager as he snatched it out of her hand and swallowed it dry, but he failed. His shame and self-loathing, even amplified by having an audience, were somehow not potent enough to conquer the _need _to have this chemical coursing through his veins.

The need to make the pain stop.

_It's just biology, Barton._ _Nerves and shit. That's all._

But he knew that was a lie. Because the relief that coursed through him just from the act of swallowing the pill was enough to make him weak in the knees. He let himself sag onto the chair next to Bruce with a relieved sigh. Then, frustrated with himself and eager to escape the heavy weight of the gazes that had settled upon him, he growled, "So what did Fury say?"

Natasha looked at him closely, taking in his appearance. He was haggard, sweaty, and seemed exhausted. That, combined with the enthusiasm with which he had taken the pill from her, indicated that he'd been on-edge, strung out, at the very edge of his control. Which meant that he'd had the pills in his possession for hours but hadn't taken any of them.

This was a major step forward.

She fought the urge to cheer, though, not wanting to draw attention to it. Clint seemed like he was trying very hard to either disappear or distract everyone enough that they'd stop staring at him, and she couldn't blame him. Hell, she figured she could help him out—after all, they had a job to do and needed to get down to business. "Fury is sending the biohazard response team 'as fast as their fucking asses can move.' He wants us to engage Lucas in the meantime."

"You can't be serious," Steve said. "We're all...compromised."

Clint thought that was a very tactful way of putting it. Although personally, he'd preferred Tony's earlier analysis of the situation. 'Fucked' seemed a bit more apt than 'compromised.'

And speaking of being fucked, "Does Fury know I'm here?"

Natasha shot him an exasperated look. "Of course Fury knows you're here. He probably knew you were here before you did, Barton."

Well, that was more than likely true. "Am I...?"

"What? Going to jail?" Natasha shook her head. "I told him it was too dangerous, but it's an order. You're reinstated for the duration of this mission. Your continued employment is conditional, pending further review of your case." From her expression, it was clear that she didn't approve of at least part of that, though Clint couldn't decide if it was the part where he'd been reinstated or the part where he might be fired. Steve seemed to have some reservations about Fury's decision as well, if the worried look he was giving Clint was anything to go by.

"Great!" Tony interrupted, before everyone could start arguing about whether or not including the archer was a good idea. He thought it was a damn terrible idea, but they didn't really have time to hash it out. "Glad we've got that all worked out. Now, how long does this shit take to cycle out of our systems? What kind of timeframe are we looking at?"

Bruce shrugged. "I never got to test it. The effects are pretty long lasting, though..." he trailed off, looking thoughtful. Turning to Thor, he asked, "You said it's Chitauri blood. What else do you know about it? Where did it come from?"

With gusto, the demigod launched into a reiteration of his earlier explanation of the situation, describing in detail what Loki had said about the blood's properties. When Thor got to the part about Loki's imminent release from prison, Bruce's eyebrows shot up in alarm. "You're joking."

"I most certainly am not. The Allfather will hold to his word. Loki was correct in his predictions of the destructive possibilities of this substance. He has been entirely truthful, in fact."

"...And you didn't think that was a little strange? He's the God of Lies and all, right?"

Thor became defensive. "Surely you don't believe that my brother is to blame for all of this? For the actions of an insane and grieving man?"

Bruce took his glasses off and polished the lenses on his shirt feverishly. "Well...um, maybe?"

"What do you mean?" Steve asked with a warning look at Thor, who seemed on the verge of an outburst.

But it was Tony, not Bruce, who spoke. "Oh my God, that manipulative _asshole_."

Bruce, emboldened by the fact that Tony could see the connection too, nodded vigorously. "Of course, we can't _prove _anything, but it's so _obvious_—"

"—I don't know how I didn't see it before. Well, I was distracted. That's no excuse. Bruce, do you think Loki—"

"It's possible. I'm sure he's capable of it, it wouldn't even be hard—"

"Were either of you planning on filling the rest of us in any time _soon_?" Steve butted in. "Or should we just try to guess what's going on? Because if Loki's involved, that kind of guessing could take all night."

"Thor," Bruce asked, ignoring Steve completely, "What was the _exact _deal that your brother made with your father?"

"Loki believed that the humans would use the Chitauri blood for evil. He thought it imperative that it be removed from human hands before it came to such a thing, because of its potent effects. If, on my journey, I found that its effects were as he described, and if it was in fact being used for destruction, then Loki would be pardoned, with his forethought and caution as ample evidence of his changed character."

Bruce nodded again. "And if it just so happened that, while he was here, he set it up so that this stuff would fall into the wrong hands, ensured that it _would _be misused?"

"You think my brother that crafty?" But then, Thor deflated and shook his head regretfully. "It may well be as you say. Loki is much changed in recent times, and this deception is within his capabilities, I fear."

"No shit," Tony snorted. "I think the real question isn't 'is Loki responsible for this', it's '_how_?' Lucas and Loki never met, right? So how could Loki be manipulating him?"

"That's true," Natasha said slowly. "And how did Lucas find out about the blood? He had to have been gathering it here for a while, how did he know where to find it to bring it here?"

"Oh." Bruce fidgeted, suddenly awkward. "Um. I probably should have mentioned this before. Lucas isn't working alone."

Everyone turned to stare at him. He shrugged apologetically. "Sorry. I forgot. There's some Russian guy he's working with. Seems to be calling the shots, so...maybe he roped Lucas into this?"

Steve spoke up, "Well, that's good to know, but it doesn't really answer the question. How did this other guy get involved, then? What's his play? Is he still under Loki's mind control, because—"

"You know, SHIELD has a lot of enemies," Clint cut in, sounding like this was something he'd said before. Staring at his lap, he added, "Most of the people working for Loki...he didn't have to control them." He grimaced, as if talking about Loki was causing actual physical discomfort. "It wouldn't have been hard to find someone willing to keep working for him after he'd gone...especially for the right price." He looked up, meeting everyone's eyes. "Good luck proving anything, though."

"Without definite proof to back these accusations...my father will not go back on his word. Even with proof, it is not guaranteed that he will reconsider," Thor stated gravely.

Tony shut his faceplate with authority. "Then I guess we'd better get on catching these two losers so we have some damn evidence. Asgardians are so fucking _stubborn_."

Steve put a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Sorry, Tony. For this, I think we're going to need a plan."

* * *

It was a bad plan, consisting of something like six bad ideas strung together into something semi-cohesive. The specifics were going to be contingent on the situation, of course, but they'd gone over the basics. But even the basics were a bad idea.

Clint thought he might be biased, though, so he asked, "Does anyone else think this is a bad plan?"

Natasha snorted, "Worst plan I've ever heard."

Well, that was good.

Patiently, Steve said, "I know it's not...perfect. But it's the best we can do. We have to move."

It was true. They were wasting time, and God only knew what kind of mischief Lucas and his friend were getting up to. Bruce explained how Lucas had made off with several barrels of the blood, and any plans he had for them were bound to be bad. So, as a caution (though no one knew how effective it would be, really), the Avengers who had been exposed to the Chitauri blood carefully wrapped their hands in plastic wrap they found in the kitchen (lamenting that there had only been one lonely glove left in Lucas's stash). Then everyone headed out to the SUV parked a few hundred feet from the house.

_The first bad idea was having me drive_, Clint thought, sliding into the driver's seat. He'd tried to negotiate with Bruce, but the physicist had muttered something about 'needing to stay calm' and declined. To which Clint had replied (thinking back to his nearly disastrous drive into the woods), "I don't think my driving's really going to help with that."

And everyone had laughed, like it had been a joke.

But someone had to drive, and the others (even with the plastic) ran the risk of igniting the vehicle, and then they'd all be screwed. With Banner disinclined to chauffeur, it fell to Clint.

As did a number of other things. For example, he'd been placed in charge of rescuing civilians. While the team wasn't entirely sure what Lucas's plan was, Bruce said that the man had made it pretty clear that he had no qualms about involving an innocent civilian population in this grudge match. Clint, as Steve pointed out, was the only one capable of ensuring that the civilians were neither incinerated nor crushed if they needed help. To which Clint had replied (thinking of his bone-deep exhaustion and throbbing headache, his shaking hands), "Fucking tragic that _I'm _their best hope."

That _had _been a joke, albeit a self-deprecating one. But no one had laughed.

Clint thought it might be because everyone agreed with him.

So that had been the second bad idea. Or maybe the third. Or fourth. Because, now that he was thinking about it, the first bad idea wasn't having him drive, it was having him come on this mission at all. Maybe the first bad idea had actually been _his _brilliant plan to come out here to lend a hand.

_What the hell were you _thinking_?_

Well, he'd have time to ruminate on that later. At the moment, he had more pressing things to worry about. Like helpless civilians. And fires. Right. _Focus_. "Where am I going?"

"Lucas said the town was about a mile north of here. I think if you just follow the road...?"

Those were directions that he could handle. Clint threw the car into drive and headed north.

The town wasn't hard to find at all. For one, there were signs. Second, it really was just up the road. And third, a large portion of it seemed to be on fire.

Orange flames lit up the night sky. A single fire truck was parked outside a house on the edge of town, the firemen struggling to contain the fire while at least half a dozen others burned around them. The town was in complete chaos, with people running between the burning buildings, attempting to stop the fires with garden hoses, buckets, anything they could use to throw water at the flames. Their efforts were hindered by the fact that the hoses and buckets kept 'spontaneously' igniting.

Lucas and his friend were nowhere to be found.

This was kind of what the Avengers had been expecting, but it was still something of a shock to witness. Clint pulled the SUV off the road and they sat for a moment, just watching.

"I don't get it," Tony said. "What the fuck is this supposed to accomplish?"

Bruce shook his head. "Lucas wants to prove how dangerous we are. Or how useless, I guess. And he's kind of right—what can we do about this, except try and save the people who are trapped? We make an appearance, and everyone will know that we were here and did nothing. Or that we made it worse." He gave a half-smile. "Don't think the Other Guy's going to be very useful here. Nothing really needs to be smashed."

Steve nodded briskly. "Fair enough. But you will be. We'll stick to the plan. Everyone remember what they're doing?" They all nodded, but Steve decided to run through it again. He wanted to be absolutely sure that everyone was on the same page now that they actually knew what the situation was. "Bruce, I know you're not _that kind _of doctor, but you're helping out until the paramedics get here."

Bruce shrugged. "Can't do a lot for smoke inhalation, but I'll do my best for everything else."

"Good. Then I'm going to try and gather the people who have been exposed, you know, try and keep them isolated so they don't do any more damage. Tony, Natasha...look for Lucas and whoever he's working with. Be careful. Call for backup if you find him. Clint, you're on rescue duty. And Thor...you're summoning rain along with as little lightning as possible. We need a downpour."

Uncertain, the demigod voiced his reservations. "Of course, but...I do not know how effective it will be."

"Just give it a shot, okay? These people need all the help they can get. All right, everybody. Let's go."

Reminded of their orders, everyone got out of the car. They did a quick check to make sure their comm units were working and spread out. Clint headed over to where a large group of people was standing and frantically gesturing at one of the burning buildings. "Is everyone okay?"

Apparently, something about him seemed governmental and official (Clint didn't know if it was the bow and quiver, or the large number of guns strapped to his person, or his...interesting... uniform) because he didn't even need to flash his badge before people were clamoring for his attention.

"My daughter is trapped—"

"—Grandma can't get out—"

"—Can't find my cat—"

He held up a hand, the extreme amount of sensory input overwhelming his frayed nerves. _Oh God, my _head... "Hold on. One at a time, please."

They did slow down a tiny amount, but he still found it nearly impossible to focus. He felt the beginning tendrils of panic starting to creep in. _People are going to _die _because you're too strung out to do your job, Barton_.

That was unacceptable.

Clint held up a hand again, trying to still the faint trembling in the appendage before anyone noticed. He resisted the overwhelming urge to rub at his forehead and/or throw up, ignored how he'd just broken into a sweat that had nothing at all to do with the fires burning nearby. He _could _do this. "Okay. Where do I need to go?"

Within a few seconds, he'd gotten a rough mental map (though he'd considered drawing a physical one...which house had he decided to start with?) sketched out of where people (and animals...he couldn't resist pleas for pets) were thought to be trapped. Girding himself, Clint headed into the first one.

The fire was largely on the outside of the structure, but the inside was uncomfortably warm and full of smoke. He held his breath and quickly headed upstairs.

He emerged a moment later carrying a baby and a small dog, both of whom he brought to Bruce, who was at the center of a rapidly growing crowd of injured townsfolk.

As Clint slipped into the next house, it began to rain.

That house was more difficult, because there were flames rapidly spreading across the carpet. At the top of the stairs, Clint had to stop and fight off a wave of dizziness before combing through the bedrooms in search of the toddler that one of the men had insisted was inside.

Clint found the kid, and continued to make his way slowly, laboriously, through the other houses, waiting to get word about Lucas's whereabouts. In between houses, he saw that Bruce was tending to the injured, now aided by paramedics from the closest city, and that Steve had separated a group of people from the others and looked to be trying to explain to them what was going on.

The last house was the worst, nearly entirely engulfed in flames and full of thick black smoke. After he escorted an elderly woman from the flames (cutting it pretty damn close, too), he stood outside, bent over, coughing, for almost a minute. The pain in his head reached an unbearable level, and his vision went gray around the edges. When it cleared, he was on his knees and Bruce was standing next to him.

"Are you okay?"

Honestly, he wasn't. It felt like his lungs were on fire, he'd tripped on some stairs and banged his shin badly, and his left arm felt...singed. Or maybe burned. Definitely burned, now that he was thinking about it. All of that was piled on top of his already-dismal physical state. But Clint thought he'd be damned if he let any of that get in the way of finishing this job. He'd fucked up enough recently to last a lifetime, and his own physical discomfort seemed inconsequential in the face of the consequences of succumbing to his weakness. So he ignored Bruce's question, instead asking, "Any news?"

Bruce thought that was a strange thing to ask—Clint had a comm, so he'd know if there had been news. But Bruce could also recognize an attempt to deflect when he saw one, and he decided to let Clint get away with it. For now. "Not yet. Are you finished?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." Clint broke into another coughing fit. When he could speak again, he added, "Unless somebody lit up another house?"

Bruce cast a quick glance around. "I don't think so. Steve would have called it. Look, if you need a break, that's fine." His eyes settled on Clint's burned arm and his eyebrows began to creep up in alarm. "Hey, that looks bad—"

"I'm fine," Clint interrupted. Then he spoke into his comm unit, "Civilians are clear. What's the situation?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded rough, like sandpaper. As Clint waited for a response, Bruce hovered nearby, trying to get a better look at his arm. Clint noticed this and tucked the injured limb in closer to his body. Bruce huffed in annoyance.

Steve answered Clint's inquiry first. "I think I found everyone who was exposed. I'm not sure how Lucas got them, but there's about twenty people here all together. What about you, Tony? You find him yet?"

"Aerial surveillance has been inconclusive. So, that's a negative. Maybe Romanoff's had more luck?"

Silence. Then her voice was in their ears. "There's a school about a quarter of a mile north of where we parked. I can see someone moving around on the lower level. Seems suspicious."

A few more beats of silence, while Steve considered. "All right. I think we've done all we can here. Let's head over that way. Natasha, stay where you are. Everyone else, reconvene at the car."

"You get that?" Clint asked. Bruce nodded. Together, they headed back towards the SUV.

Which, as they could see from a distance, was going up in flames, which were spreading out from the front seat. Steve was standing next to the open driver's door, wearing an almost comical expression of shocked dismay on his face. As they approached, he called out, "I didn't—I just—"

"You just touched it," Bruce muttered, slowly coming to a halt a couple hundred feet away. "What happened to the plastic?"

"I couldn't get the door open with it on my hands—"

"You might want to step away, Cap," Clint advised, watching the flames spread to the back seat.

"What the fuck?" Tony asked, landing with a _thud _near Bruce and Clint. "Nice going, Rogers, you blew up our ride!"

Steve reached Clint and Bruce just as Thor came up behind them. "Hey! I didn't blow it up, it's just—"

He was interrupted by the SUV exploding. The blast promptly ignited the trees above the vehicle, the flames spreading slowly—hindered by the recent rain—but spreading nonetheless.

"Forest fire. Great," Tony snarked. "Do you know how much the fine is for burning down the forest? It's outrageous—"

"Are you guys going to get over here any time soon?" Natasha spoke into their ears. "Because it's definitely Lucas in there, and I'm pretty sure he has hostages."

"Sorry, Romanoff," Tony replied. "Captain America had to blow up the car and take out half the forest, we'll be right there."

"...I don't even want to know," Natasha ground out, impatient. "Just get here. We need to end this."

Clint thought that seemed agreeable. And despite the car blowing up, and the forest fire, and the burn on his arm and the injury to his leg, and his smoke inhalation, and the headache, exhaustion, shaking, and other withdrawal issues...he thought that this whole night was going far better than he could have hoped. No one had died, he'd managed to hold it together, and they'd managed to both rescue the people who were trapped _and _get a handle on Lucas's destruction with minimal damage to the area.

So how much harder could it be to free a couple of hostages and take down a mad scientist and his Russian sugar daddy, _really_?

Well. Maybe harder than he'd thought.

* * *

Thanks for reading/following/favoriting/reviewing, as always.

We're slowly coming to the end of this. I don't really want to be done, so I've been dragging my feet with updating. Sorry about that.

I've been playing around with the idea of a sequel to this, but I don't want to commit to anything unless I know the interest is there. Would anyone be interested in following Clint's story farther than this Big Adventure?

Oh! I almost forgot to plead for reviews. Please?


	20. Snap

Warnings: language, mention of drug use, angst.

Thanks as always to irite for being betatastic.

This has over 200 reviews, everyone, and that makes me ridiculously happy. You are all awesome.

I do not own The Avengers.

* * *

The walk to the school was uneventful.

Except for the staring. Clint was sure that they made an interesting picture. Seeing a group of people dressed this way—capes, shields, metal suits—outside of October 31st was undoubtedly odd. But it wasn't exactly like they were an unknown entity—the whole saving Manhattan thing had gotten some pretty serious press coverage, so Clint wasn't sure what they were staring at.

_Then again_, Clint thought to himself, trooping faithfully behind the others, _the last strangers who came through here set a bunch of stuff on fire, so maybe they're not feeling real hospitable right now._

He pushed his concern out of his mind. People in small towns, especially in ones like this, with a population under 500 people, could be...insular. Distrustful of outsiders.

The perfect place, then, for Lucas to actuate his little plan.

_Asshole probably knew it, too_.

Standing in the parking lot just outside the school, Steve stopped next to a large pickup truck, the lone vehicle in the lot, and glanced around. "Where's Natasha?"

Clint heard a very quiet frustrated sigh from somewhere near his ankles. He looked down.

Natasha was underneath the truck, propped up on her elbows, glaring up at them. She slipped out from where she was laying, smoothly hopping up so that she was standing. From behind the others (who, excepting Clint, had not yet noticed her), she muttered, "You guys really have no concept of subtlety, do you?" They jumped, and she smirked, adding, "Clint, I expected better of you."

She was maybe half-serious, he could tell, so he shrugged an apology. Really, it hadn't even occurred to him to take a stealthy approach to this (_more evidence that you don't belong here, Barton_), but now that he had, just walking up to the building seemed stupidly dangerous. No one knew what these guys were planning, and being out in the open like this was an invitation for disaster.

"Safe to say they're not going to pick us off in the parking lot," Natasha noted, glaring at Tony to silence whatever smartass thing he'd been about to say. "They would have done it already." She looked at Steve. "What's our move?"

Sufficiently recovered from being startled, Steve replied, "You said he had hostages?"

Natasha gestured towards the building. The lights were on in one of the upstairs rooms. "I saw four or five people walking around up there. Looked like one of them had a gun."

Steve nodded. "Could they be accomplices, do you think, and not hostages?"

"I don't think so. One of them was pretty small. A kid. Not really the villainous type."

"I don't know," Tony interjected, "When I was a kid—"

Steve and Natasha shot him identical glares, and he quieted. Everyone back on task, Steve continued, "Okay, so we've got a probable hostage situation. We know at least one of our perpetrators is up there. Any info on the other one?"

Natasha shook her head. "Sorry, too hard to tell from here."

"Why don't we just head on up and check it out?" Tony asked, impatient, hovering a few inches above the ground. "Just standing here isn't doing any damn good. Besides, I'm making a pitch to the board at 9:00 and I'd kind of like to be there, because my new idea is _awesome_."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Somehow, I think you're going to miss the board meeting, Stark. Just walking into an unknown situation is inadvisable."

"Why are we so hesitant? I do not think dealing with one or two mortals will pose much of a challenge," Thor declared.

Bruce coughed. "Yeah, but some of us don't do surprises very well."

"Oh, you'll be fine, it's not like—"

Clint had zoned out of the conversation several seconds ago (somewhere around Natasha asking 'What's our move,' and really he should have been paying attention to that but, well, he wasn't), but he had just been drawn back into it by how _annoying_ it was listening to them all argue. It was infuriating, actually. Kind of drilling into his skull. With so much fucking ego in one place, it was a miracle they ever agreed on anything, kind of amazing they ever managed to get _anything_ done and— "Oh, for Christ's sake let's just fucking _go_!"

Everyone stopped their bickering and stared at him.

_Yeah, that looked crazy_, he thought, feeling a blush working its way into his face. "Um. I mean, we should get moving. Get this over with."

"You're right," Steve said, after a moment, making what seemed like a concerted effort to _not _draw attention to Clint's outburst. "Dragging this out isn't going to help. Why don't we head up? Bruce, if you think you need to, you can wait outside..."

Bruce considered. "I think it'll be okay. Besides, you need all the non-explosive hands you can get."

_That's fucking true_, Clint thought, looking down at his own hands. They were trembling again.

"Sure," Steve agreed. He trusted Bruce to know his own limits. "Then let's move."

They made their way towards the entrance nearest to them. The door was, of course, locked.

Natasha looked at it, then at Clint. "All you, Barton."

He set to picking the lock. It took him far longer than he would have liked, his unsteady hands and headache complicating things and frustrating him to the point that he considered just having Thor or Steve or Tony knock the damn door down instead.

_What's the point of having these guys around if you can't have them commit property damage once in awhile, Christ. _

Clint eventually got the door open and held it for the others as they filed past him. There was a staircase on their right, lit only by the light from the emergency exit signs. They slowly made their way up, Steve in front, Clint at the back.

Light was spilling out of the third door on the left, so Steve led them there, his shield held up in front of them. They filed cautiously into the room.

Lucas was sitting on the teacher's desk at the front of the room, gun casually resting in one hand, several syringes full of thick green liquid on the table next to him. At his feet were four other people, two adults and two children. They weren't bound or gagged, but Clint supposed that the threat of being shot was probably enough to keep them from trying anything.

"Nice of you to come by," Lucas greeted them conversationally, like they had just stopped by his office for a quick visit. "I was wondering if you would."

"Dude, cut the crap," Tony said, aiming his repulsor at the scientist. "You're done."

"Am I? I don't know, I still think there's plenty we could do." Lucas picked up one of the syringes with his free hand, idly rolling it through his fingers. He nodded at Bruce, the picture of professional courtesy. "Good to see you again, Banner."

"Yeah, you too," Bruce replied, equally courteous. "Where's your friend? I was hoping for the full...reunion."

Lucas smirked. "He's around. Had an errand to run or something. But it's fine, we can have the party without him. I brought guests." He gestured to the people in front of him.

Clint found himself wondering about other people's definitions of the word 'party.' He had to agree with Nat, there. To him, it seemed like anything involving syringes full of Chitauri blood was not going to be a party. It was going to be a giant fucking disaster.

Steve seemed to be thinking the same thing. "Dr. Lucas, why don't you set that down and come with us? We can still fix this."

Lucas barked a short laugh. "Nah, I'm good. Kinda planned on seeing this through to the end, so, might as well, right?"

"Yeah?" Tony asked, curious. "What _is _the end goal, here? 'Cause it seems like this mad scientist thing isn't going so well for you."

"I thought it was going alright," Lucas disagreed with an easygoing shrug. "I mean, you're all here, I managed to expose a bunch of people to the toxin, the town's burning, you all look useless. I was kind of hoping you'd be a little more destructive while you were trying to be heroic, but it looks like you managed to avoid that. That's a pity. But you've still got the 'useless' thing going on, so, all's not lost. Oh, and I told my hostages that this whole thing is _your _fault because you killed my family. I'm sure that'll trickle down into something useful. So it hasn't been a total loss. And I still haven't gotten to my last trick."

He abruptly stopped toying with the syringe, picking it up and aiming at his leg. "You know, the one where I turn myself into some kind of human flame thrower and torch this kid," he pointed at the youngest hostage, "in front of his family, and none of you can do anything to stop me because," he aimed the gun at the other child, "I'll shoot this one if you try." He jabbed the needle down into this thigh.

Bruce, who knew a thing or two about the dangers associated with testing things on yourself, blurted out, "Woah, I wouldn't do that, everyone's who's ever been exposed has had it transdermally. You don't know what injecting it straight into muscle will do, it could be too potent—"

Lucas, as had been the case all night, had no interest at all in listening to Bruce. "Shut up, Banner." Before anyone could act, Lucas depressed the top of the syringe.

Nothing happened. Which was entirely expected—being exposed to the Chitauri blood left no outward indications of exposure. Still, it seemed...anticlimactic.

For two or three seconds, Lucas stared at the Avengers, the look on his face shifting slowly from 'triumphant' to 'pained.' The Avengers stared back, waiting for him to make a move. Then, he lunged forward and grabbed the youngest kid's arm. The kid screamed, although from pain or surprise, no one could say. The others reacted by flinching away and crying out.

Steve, flanked by Thor and Natasha, moved towards the front of the room to take Lucas down just as Clint pulled out his bow and Tony fired a blast from his repulsor.

Tony missed, and Clint didn't get a shot, because Lucas suddenly froze, going completely stiff before keeling over.

He didn't move again.

Bruce reacted first, crossing the room and kneeling next to Lucas. He placed two fingers on Lucas's throat, feeling for a pulse. A moment later, he shook his head. "Dead. I think. He doesn't have a pulse, anyway."

"Yeah, Bruce, that usually means dead," Tony stated. "Although, zombies—"

Steve shot Tony a _look_. He'd heard Tony's thoughts on 'zombies' at length. "Tony. _Really _not the time." To the hostages, who were looking uncertainly between the Avengers and Lucas's body, he inquired, "Do you think you can make it back to town? There's paramedics there who can take a look at you."

"Do you think it's safe for them to just go?" Natasha asked. "I mean, that Russian guy is still around somewhere, they could run into him."

"I don't really think that's going to be an issue," said a heavily accented voice from the doorway. "Normal hostages are so...boring. They can go."

The Avengers turned to face the voice. The man in the doorway smirked. "Really, they can."

Requiring no further prompting, the hostages quickly collected themselves and left. Tony kept his repulsor trained on the Russian until they had made it out the door. And after. He wasn't feeling very friendly.

Once they'd gone, Clint, who was closest to the door, looked the man up and down before asking, "_This_ your Russian, Banner?" He failed completely at keeping his irritation out of his voice. _Just __one fucking thing after another tonight, isn't it._

Bruce peered over the top of his glasses before pushing them up roughly. "Um, yeah. Yeah, it is."

"Now, Barton, is that any way to greet an old friend? And after we worked together so fruitfully..."

Clint froze. "How do you—"

"You wouldn't remember me, of course, but I remember you." As he was speaking, he entered the room, slowly, non-threatening. "You were so very useful back then, all devotion and eagerness to serve. Pity, really, how things turned out, you could have been so _useful_."

He sidled right up to Clint and breathed into his ear, so quiet that no one else could hear, "You know, he said he chose you because he knew it was what you wanted. You're a killer, Barton, it's just what you _are_." Casually, like he'd just been commenting on the weather, he meandered away, circling towards the front of the room.

Clint felt himself stiffen, the muscles in his back and neck tightening and rendering him immobile. _That's not true, don't think about it, don't think about—_

His chest began to tighten.

Wondering what the Russian had said that had caused Clint to go suddenly white, Steve commanded him, "Stop right there. Stay where you are. Don't take another step."

The Russian complied, coming to a halt roughly in the center of the room. "Certainly."

Tony had remained quiet long enough. "Okay, who are you and what the fuck are you _doing _here?

"My name is Nicholas Sadovsky, and I am here to pick up something that belongs to me. This idiot," he gestured towards Lucas's body with his foot, "Took something of mine that I would very much like to get back. Give it to me, and I'll leave you in peace. We'll all go our separate ways."

"Yeah, what's that?" Tony asked. "Your antipsychotics?"

"You are very funny, Stark." Sadovsky didn't sound amused. "But no. Those syringes of blood on the desk were not meant for his use."

"Oh? What are they for? Gonna give them to Loki? We know you're working for him, though God knows why, talk about crazy..."

Sadovsky smiled at Tony's accusation, but didn't answer. He just repeated, "Give me the syringes, and I'll go."

"Surely you jest," Thor declared, standing at his full height and looking thoroughly unimpressed. "What leverage could you possibly have to bargain for such a deal?"

"I think you'll find I'm very persuasive."

That seemed really sinister. Five out of six of the Avengers honed in on Sadovsky, prepared for whatever he was going to do.

The sixth was...distracted. Clint was trying to focus on the scene in front of him, but it was nearly impossible to hear anything over the sudden rushing of blood in his ears. And he was getting so dizzy, his breaths coming faster and faster...

_Deep breaths, Barton_, _come on_. _This is _not _the time for this shit._

As always, berating himself did not have the desired effect. All he managed was a single harsh gasp before his chest tightened further.

Natasha whipped around to look at him. "Clint—"

The others shifted their eyes to the archer, and Sadovsky took advantage of their distraction to whip a gun out of his overcoat pocket. He pointed it straight at Bruce.

Who, seeing the gun, sighed and slumped his shoulders. "Really?"

Sadovsky shrugged. "I apologize. But it really is the most prudent plan. Certainly no one wants to provoke an 'incident,' with so many people out and about tonight. Your cooperation will benefit us all. Now, the syringes, please?" Bruce reluctantly took a step forward to pick them up. "No, not you. Don't move."

Bruce cocked his head to one side. "It has to be me. None of them can touch anything."

"Nice try, Banner, but I know that Barton wasn't exposed with the others. We nearly ran him down in the driveway. Come on Barton, get over here and lend a hand."

Clint didn't move. He was standing stock-still, staring at a point on the floor about ten feet in front of him. The trembling in his hands had become more pronounced. As they watched him, he took in another gasp of air and slowly clenched one fist.

Impatient, Sadovsky barked, "Barton, move it!"

Clint snapped his head up.

Sadovsky smirked. "There you go, Barton. Such a good little puppet, just waiting for someone to pull your strings."

That was, without a doubt, the exact wrong thing to say.

Moments before, panic had nearly set in entirely, freezing Clint's limbs, seizing his diaphragm and choking him. Panic, because he'd been reminded of Loki, of what he'd done under the demigod's thrall. Panic, because if he thought about it, that made it real, and he was a murderer and—

But then Sadovsky had drawn a gun on a man that Clint was quickly coming to consider a close friend. Sadovsky was threatening the safety of four of his other friends, plus the five hundred or so people who called this town home.

Then Sadovsky had topped it all of by taunting _him _and, well, that was just inadvisable.

Because Clint's temper had been just a little bit short, lately. Just a little bit. He'd been a little bit on edge, as it were. He'd recently gotten really bad at handling a lot of emotions. Boredom. Anxiety. Depression.

Anger. _Especially _anger.

So panic had been placed on the back burner—no, panic had been defenestrated, tossed out, crushed by the _rage _that flooded through him with Sadovsky's mocking words.

Clint clenched his jaw, feeling his teeth grind against each other. _Fucking bastard. _

"Barton, I swear to God if you don't get over here, I'm going to shoot Banner for fun. Or maybe," he turned the gun on Natasha, "This could be a little more entertaining. For me, anyway."

It happened lightning-fast. Before Sadovsky could move, react, think, Clint had whipped a gun out of its holster on his leg. Quicker than a heartbeat, he'd squeezed off two shots. Sadovsky fell over with an inarticulate cry, clutching one knee—Clint had missed the other one (_Nice fucking shooting, Barton, stellar work_). Sadovsky didn't lose his grip on _his _gun, though, and as he landed he aimed it upwards, firing a single wild shot.

The bullet clipped Natasha's right arm, just below the shoulder. She staggered backwards, falling to one knee with a curse.

The next second, a fourth shot was fired and a bullet hole appeared in the middle of Sadovsky's forehead. He went limp, blood pouring from the wound into a puddle around him.

For several beats, everyone stood in shock, looking between Clint and the growing puddle of blood. Then, Natasha cursed again, and, snapped suddenly from their reverie, Steve and Bruce rushed to her side, trying to gauge the severity of her wound without accidentally igniting something.

Tony and Thor approached Clint, who was frozen in place, gun still raised.

"Barton," Thor prodded. Clint's eyes drifted towards him, unfocused. "Are you well?"

Clint's arms fell to his sides and the gun fell out of his grip. He wrapped his arms around himself briefly before reaching a hand up to massage his forehead. "I...think so."

But he wasn't, not really.

It wasn't the first time he'd killed someone—of course not, he was an assassin, it was his job. And Sadovsky had been a class-A bastard, definitely in need of killing. Clint didn't feel guilty about _that_. That asshole had threatened them all, had fucking _shot _Nat. He'd gotten what he'd deserved.

The problem was...that he hadn't _thought _about it, about pulling the trigger, about ending a life. He hadn't been in control of himself and he'd killed someone, except this time he couldn't blame Loki, couldn't blame mind control, couldn't blame magic.

It had just been him. And sure, _this_ time it had been a bad guy on the receiving end of his loss of control, but who was to say that _next_ time it wouldn't be someone who _didn't _deserve it? He was just a fucking liability, a horrific accident waiting to happen.

Vaguely, he became aware that Tony was talking. "...wish I could hug you or something right now because you deserve it and you really look like you need one, but I can't, so just know that I want to, okay? That was fucking amazing—"

"No."

"What do you mean, no? Barton, you—"

"I shouldn't have...I didn't _think_..." And the panic that he thought he had banished a mere minute ago came back in full force, making his legs feel weak and shaky.

_You're never going to be in control, Barton, just give it up_.

Oh, control. What a mystical fucking idea that was.

He found himself thinking, of all things, about his pills. How _they _had given him control, how if he could have had just _one_ more he would have been okay, and this wouldn't have happened, and he could have focused and he wouldn't have _snapped_ and _killed someone_—

Again.

He let himself sink to his knees with something uncomfortably close to a frustrated sob. Because he _knew_ all of that shit wasn't true, that the drugs were to blame in the first place, and using wasn't going to fix _anything, ever_, but it was what he wanted more than anything right now and what the _fuck _was wrong with him that _this _was all he could think about with everything else falling apart around him?

"Clint," Natasha said approaching slowly, cradling her arm against her chest, "What's wrong?"

Instead of responding, he just gestured vaguely around him, at the two dead bodies on the floor, at the window showing flames and smoke rising in the distance, at her injured arm, at himself.

"Just another day at the office, really," Bruce observed, stepping over to them. Clint huffed a laugh edged with hysteria. Bruce smiled and offered him a hand up which, after a second, Clint took.

Remaining upright proved too difficult, and he stumbled before catching himself and leaning against a desk. He shook his head, which utterly failed to clear the dizziness, the nausea, the headache, or the omnipresent feeling that he was falling off a cliff. He tried to pull it together, but when he spoke, his voice still shook. "I'm ready to get out of here."

The others were only too happy to oblige.

* * *

Before they could leave, they had to call in a cleanup team. This fell to Bruce, as he was the only one who could both touch a phone and make coherent conversation. The last couple of days had caught up with Clint in a bad way, and he had retreated into himself, refusing to acknowledge or even look at any of the others.

Fury was not impressed to hear that their mission had resulted in two dead bodies. Bruce had apologized, but had followed that up immediately by expressing the belief that "You can damn well deal with it, because we're sure as hell not."

"In my defense," Bruce had said, after hanging up, "I'm pretty tired."

But no one blamed him for being snippy.

At some point during the showdown, the biohazard response team had made it to the town, having stopped at the cabin to pick up the rest of the barrels. They were currently rounding up the exposed townspeople to take them into protective custody until the effects of the blood had worn off.

The Avengers slowly made their way towards them, pointedly ignoring the glares and whispers following their trek back across town. Natasha and Clint were at the front, with Clint staring at the ground and Natasha giving him a whispered lecture, or a pep talk, or both. The others were several yards behind.

"You know, we've got a pretty big problem," Tony muttered to his companions, out of earshot of Clint. At least, he hoped he was. But the archer didn't look up from whatever Natasha was telling him, so it seemed like he was in the clear.

"What's that?" Steve asked, resigned. He didn't really want to hear about another problem right now.

"With Sadovsky dead, we're never going to get a confession that he was working with Loki. That crazy bastard's going to go free."

Thor's eyes flashed at Tony's disrespect, but he (for once) didn't call the billionaire out. Instead, he said, "It is as you say. Perhaps the Allfather will take our word that Loki has been dishonest, but one does not enter into a bargain such as that which was struck lightly. I fear it cannot be broken."

"We'll deal with that when we have to. If we have to." Steve shook his head. "I'd really hoped we were done with that guy."

Tony snorted. "You and me both, Cap. So, Thor, any ideas what your brother's going to do with his newfound freedom? World domination, maybe, or does he not like to repeat himself?"

"My brother is not predictable, Stark. But I am...worried. If he truly did plan all of this, then what else could he have planned?"

"I don't know," Bruce said, "But if he managed to come up with this while he was busy trying to take over the world, I'd hate to see what he's come up with while he was in prison."

They considered that in silence for the rest of their walk.

* * *

In the end, Steve, Tony, Natasha, and Thor allowed themselves to be taken into protective custody along with the townspeople. Tony thought it would be better if Stark Tower _didn't _burn to the ground, and when his personal property was involved, he could get pretty demanding. The others acquiesced, if only to quiet his complaining, although Natasha was clearly reluctant to leave Clint.

Clint was being difficult, initially not allowing himself to be taken in by the paramedics despite showing clear signs of smoke inhalation and having a large second degree burn on his arm. Natasha talked some sense into him and struck a bargain with the paramedics so that Clint could be airlifted from the hospital to SHIELD as soon as he'd been treated.

Bruce accompanied him in the ambulance, explaining the situation to the paramedics and, later, the doctors. For his part, Clint had fallen into an alternatively angry, brooding, or anxious silence from which he could not be shaken.

The doctors had wanted to keep Clint for at least a day, taking note of his alarming vitals, but when they told him as much, he'd gotten combative. Bruce advised them to let Clint sign out 'against medical advice,' assuring them that Agent Barton would be headed to SHIELD's medical facility as soon as they arrived back in New York. Reluctantly, they let him go. The hospital held up its end of the bargain, and by 8:00 AM, Clint and Bruce were taking the short helicopter ride to SHIELD's headquarters.

The official debriefing wasn't going to be for a couple of days, at least, not until the others were no longer in danger of igniting everything in their paths, but shortly after landing, Clint got a message summoning him to see the director.

He figured this meeting was going to have almost nothing to do with the mission.

With a sigh, he headed down to the locker room, loading all of his gear back into his locker. Then he headed for the showers. If he was about to be arrested or fired, he thought it would be nice to look a little less...grimy.

An hour after arriving back at base, Clint found himself pacing outside Fury's office, the director's secretary shooting him a look that registered somewhere between "concerned" and "disgusted."

_News travels fast_. _Apparently she's not a fan of drug addicts. Or rogue agents. Or drug addicted rogue agents. _

At 10:01 exactly, the secretary said, "The director will see you now, Agent Barton."

As he walked through the door into Fury's office, Clint was thinking two things.

First, he kind of hoped that he wasn't going to jail. Fired, he might be able to deal with, but jail...not so much.

Second, it was now after 10 AM, and he was overdue for his next dose. Whatever Fury was going to do—fire him, arrest him, whatever—Clint hoped he'd be quick about it.

* * *

Thanks for reading! And following! And favoriting! And...reviewing! You know you want to. If you don't review, I automatically assume this is terrible and cry.


	21. One Week

Warnings: language, mention of drug use, situationally appropriate angst.

My beta, irite, has my infinite gratitude and thanks for sticking with this!

I do not own The Avengers.

* * *

The director was seated behind his desk, perusing a file. Fury did not acknowledge Clint as he entered, instead waiting until the archer was standing directly in front of him. At which point Fury gestured at the nearby chairs and said, "Sit."

Clint was happy to oblige; after the night he'd had, sitting was infinitely better than standing. His head was still spinning, and under all the bandaging, his arm stung.

After a few more moments of silence, Fury looked up from what he was reading and leveled Clint with a hard look. "Agent Barton. As I understand it, your work in the field tonight was commendable. From the information Hill has gathered, it seems like your actions were crucial in mitigating the casualties and deaths that could have resulted from Lucas's actions. What I don't understand is, why the fuck were you in the field at all?"

Clint opened his mouth to explain, but before he could, Fury continued, "Because, if I recall correctly, you are currently 'removed from active duty' and on 'unpaid leave.' Does that sound familiar to you, Agent Barton?"

He felt a flash of irritation. Well, of course it sounded familiar. He wasn't an idiot, he'd just...

_Completely disregarded your orders, marched off into the fray, put yourself and your team in danger, nearly got Nat shot..._

The irritation faded as quickly as it had flared up. Without meeting Fury's eyes, Clint nodded slowly.

"Then there's the issue of the car you 'borrowed' and your late-night trip to the pharmacy. Care to explain any of that?" Clint didn't answer, and after a moment, Fury sighed, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. "Barton...this...fuck. You're not making this easy. I can overlook the car—hell, it's not like it's the first time you've skipped out on paperwork. But what you did in the pharmacy? That's a fucking felony. There is indisputable evidence of what you did, and I can't let something like that slide. By all rights, I should have you arrested."

Clint felt something in his chest spasm, and he noticed that he'd begun tapping his fingers against the arms of the chair. He forced his hand still, then reached up to massage the bridge of his nose. Halfway there, he changed direction to scratch his head awkwardly instead. Now was really not the time to look strung out.

Even if he _was_.

Fury was watching him carefully, and when Clint had settled back into relative stillness (because he couldn't stop his foot from bouncing, apparently, no matter how hard he tried), Fury added, "At the very least, your position with SHIELD should be terminated. Disregarding my damn orders and going off on your own was unnecessary. More important, it was dangerous. It put you in a position that you were not capable of handling—"

"I did, though," Clint interrupted, without thinking. "I did handle it." But the words felt hollow, even to him.

Apparently, they felt hollow to Fury, too. "Damn it, Barton, that's not the point! You shouldn't have been there! And that you apparently think so little of _my_ orders and of _your _own safety says to me that you have no business working for this organization!"

Fury paused for breath, and Clint stood abruptly. He couldn't do this, not like this, not with his head on the verge of exploding, not with his hands shaking, not burned and battered and exhausted. He couldn't do this, but he was going to do it anyway. "Fine! Then fire me! Arrest me! You're right, I _don't_ belong here, fucking strung out and shit." Clint began to pace, feeling Fury's eyes burning into him. His words began to come faster, cascading from his mouth without restraint. "I can't—I can't control myself. I just keep fucking _killing_ people, and it's not my fault, but it _is_ my fault because I can't _control _myself, so yeah, fire me. Please. Just, get me out of here. Send me to prison, or something, somewhere I don't have to _think _about it—"

"Barton, calm the fuck down," came Fury's voice, but to Clint it sounded like he was about a thousand miles away. Like he was far down a tunnel, his voice tiny and inconsequential. Clint had far more pressing things to worry about, like the way his chest had filled with lead, the way his head was swimming. How life in prison or life on his own were equally terrifying prospects, how thinking of either possibility filled him with dread so thick he couldn't rise to the surface of it.

No, it just kept dragging him down, like a hand was wrapped around his ankle.

"Barton!" Sharper, now. A hand on his shoulder, shaking him. "Barton, listen to me. You're not going to prison."

"What?" Clint managed, more of a gasp than a word. "Why not? Why the fuck not?"

"Because...what happened to you wasn't your fault. You were a SHIELD agent doing your job."

"...Were?"

"Are," Fury corrected himself. "You are a SHIELD agent, and you were doing your job. And we're not..._I'm _not just going to throw you out on your ass because the repercussions of that are ugly. But, Christ, Barton...you can't keep doing things like this. If you want to stay with SHIELD, I'm going to need more from you."

Still not entirely capable of drawing breath, still dizzy and unfocused, Clint did not feel like now was the time to enter into any kind of commitment. Despite that, he choked out, "What do you need?"

Fury moved so that he was in Clint's line of sight and met his eyes. "Go to medical. _Stay _there. For as long as they want you to. Work with them, prove to me you can follow orders, that you care enough about your own well being to get better. If you can do that...we'll talk more."

"...And, what if I don't? If I can't?"

Fury shook his head. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. But I don't think it's going to be a problem."

Something still didn't sit right with him, though, and it took Clint a moment to figure out _what_.

Oh. This wasn't his choice. Not really. It wasn't much of a choice, anyway. And having the choice taken from him...having this modicum of control over his own future removed...made him feel physically sick. Every fiber of his being rebelled against it, and for a moment he considered turning on his heel and leaving. Running.

But that wasn't going to help, and he _knew _it. Maybe...to get some kind of agency, to regain his self-control...he'd have to give it up, just for a little while. Maybe controlling every little thing wasn't the answer.

And maybe giving up control wouldn't be so bad. Because he _couldn't _control himself, and he should be somewhere safe until he could.

It wasn't his choice, but that didn't mean it wasn't the right one.

After several moments of consideration, Clint nodded his consent. Fury picked up his phone.

* * *

"He did _what_?" Natasha snarled through the glass window.

Fury had sent Agent Hill down to biohazard containment area A, where 2/3 of the Avengers were currently housed, to inform Natasha of Clint's current arrangement. Natasha wasn't impressed. Her arm hurt, she was tired, sick of listening to Stark talk, and really, really needed a shower. This latest news was the last straw.

Hill shrugged helplessly. "He said it was for the best."

"He just _coerced _Clint into treatment."

Tony walked over to Natasha. "Well...at least he's getting treatment?" The whole coercion thing didn't sit well with him, either, not really, but a small part of him thought that getting Clint off the drugs would make working on his other issues much, much easier. So maybe that should be a priority.

Natasha snorted. "Right. There's always that. Let's just make him do whatever we want, it's not like he has some really, really serious issues with control."

"Look," Hill said. "It's not ideal, I know. But as soon as you're out of here, you can go up and see him."

She left. Probably for the best, as Natasha was getting more agitated every second. Clint was her _responsibility_, and she was trapped in this cell, unable to support him. Fucking Lucas.

Natasha paced for a moment, then asked the others, "Does _anyone _have any idea how long we're going to be stuck down here?"

"Bruce might know," Tony said, "But he hasn't come down to visit us yet. Asshole."

"Tony," Steve chided him. "I'm sure he's really busy right now, and there's not really a whole lot he could do for us, anyway."

"Yeah, I bet he's busy," Tony smirked. "Busy having breakfast, busy taking a shower, busy having a nap..."

"Now, I resent that," came Bruce's voice. He appeared around the corner, approaching the window of the biohazard containment area. He was freshly showered and carrying a bagel and a cup of decaf coffee. "I didn't have time for the nap." He settled down in the stool that someone had left by the window, setting his breakfast down and opening the file he'd had tucked under his arm. "I have some good news and some bad news."

"Bad news first," Natasha demanded, just as Thor suggested, "Let us hear the good tidings first."

Bruce looked momentarily unsure, before he pushed his glasses up and cleared his throat. Clearly, one of them was far more frightening than the other, and that was the one he'd listen to. "So, the bad news is, well. You remember Thompson? The first case? He tested completely clear of the Chitauri blood twenty-four hours after he was brought into custody...but that was twenty-four hours after the time he reported being exposed. So, it looks like it takes forty-eight hours to clear the body on its own."

"Two days?" Steve asked. "That's not so bad."

Natasha disagreed. "Two days? What's the _good _news, then?"

And Bruce grinned. "Well, once I knew what, exactly, was causing the contamination, I figured out a way to flush it from the body. Give me a couple of hours, and I'll have something for you. That, plus some time in the decontamination shower, should get you out of here in five or six hours, tops. So, you'll be stuck in here for maybe eight to ten hours."

Even Natasha had to admit that ten hours was a vast improvement over forty-eight. Still, she had some things she needed to get done today, and none of them were possible from the biohazard containment area. "Shouldn't you be working, then?"

Bruce took the hint and stood. "Um, yeah. Probably. Just thought I'd let you know what's up."

"Thank you, Dr. Banner," Thor said.

Tony added, "Yeah, thanks. But get to work, big guy."

Bruce huffed a small laugh and turned to leave.

"Wait," Natasha spoke. Bruce stopped and turned around again, the question 'what now?' clear on his face. "Could you go check on Clint? Hill said he's in medical...or heading that way, anyway."

Bruce frowned. "Of course, I'll try...but someone might call security again. I'll come back later and let you know what I find out."

Natasha nodded. "Thanks."

"No problem." And he headed back down the hall towards the elevator.

The others settled back into their immensely boring wait.

Bruce came back exactly three hours and twenty-seven minutes later. Not that Natasha was keeping track.

This time, he was carrying four vials containing some kind of white powder, which he set down carefully by the lead doggie flap in the door before settling back onto his stool. "So. This should purge any toxins from your bodies. I'd recommend taking it with a glass of water...if you can. The vials are inflammable. Um...I think that's it. I need to get back to the lab, I've got to whip up another 20 or so doses of this stuff so SHIELD can get the others back to their lives." He stood again, apparently eager to leave.

"Bruce," Natasha prompted, kind of surprised by his attempt at a hasty retreat. It was almost like he was...hiding something. "Did you see Clint?"

Bruce's shoulders slumped minutely. "What? Oh, yeah." And he seemed suddenly just a little more awkward than usual, which Natasha immediately seized upon.

"How is he?"

"He's fine—"

"Don't lie to me, Banner."

Bruce swallowed visibly before trying again. "Really, he's not...bad."

"Dude, just get to the point before she finds a way to kill you from in here," Tony advised. "What's wrong with Barton?"

"He's...fine, really," Bruce said. "He's just...a little out of it. I think they gave him something for his anxiety. But he wanted me to let you know that he's fine. Really, that's all."

Natasha narrowed her eyes, glaring at the physicist. Bruce, she could tell, was telling the truth. He really was an abominable liar. "Thanks. Seriously, I appreciate it."

"It's really not a problem." Bruce was clearly relieved that she'd stopped grilling him. "I think we're all worried...the faster you guys get out of here, the better, really." He shrugged. "The powder should take four or five hours to work...it might not be the most pleasant experience. But once it's done, go through decontamination, and you should be good to go."

Everyone thanked him profusely—being largely tired of each other's company at this point—and Bruce headed back upstairs.

* * *

Pretty much the first thing Clint had done in medical, after being checked in and assigned to a room (and good God there was a lot of paperwork), was pick up his panic attack where he'd left off in Fury's office.

Because the reality of what was going on had hit him suddenly, like a ton of bricks, and it left him reeling. _What the fuck are you _doing _here, Barton? What could this possibly accomplish? They can't help you, no one can...not even yourself._

He'd been sitting on the bed, freshly changed into hospital-issue pajama bottoms and a loose cotton t-shirt, looking at the needle in his hand (saline; he was dehydrated) and the heart rate monitor on his finger (tachycardic again, and it was speeding up...), and then suddenly he wasn't.

He was on the floor, face down, heart rate monitor dislodged, IV ripped out, an alarm going off somewhere nearby, struggling to breathe.

Which was pretty damn pathetic, but he didn't have much time to think about it before someone had jabbed a needle in his hip.

Whatever they'd given him had ended his panic attack pretty abruptly, left him feeling sticky and tired. The nurses had helped him back onto his bed, had re-inserted his IV, had resituated the heart rate monitor. They didn't say anything, and Clint couldn't help but feel that they were staring at him, judging him. But he didn't have the energy to do anything about it, so he just laid there, passive, and allowed them to poke and prod to their hearts' content. They left just as silently as they had come in.

Several minutes later, the doctor had come in to explain how they were going to proceed from here, and Clint was _thrilled _to see that it was the same doctor he'd seen, Christ, was it only yesterday? It felt like an eternity ago.

"Agent Barton. Imagine my surprise when I saw you'd been admitted," the doctor said dryly. Somehow, Clint thought he wasn't actually surprised at all.

"I'm not clear on the exact circumstances that brought you here," he continued, "Your file is pretty sparse on that. But now that you _are _here, here's what we're going to do. We'll continue administering the amphetamine at gradually lower doses until we have weaned you off of it completely. When was your last dose?"

"Midnight," Clint answered shortly.

The doctor nodded. "I see. I'll make sure your next dose is delivered shortly. Now, the weaning process should only take a few more days. We're also going to work on correcting your dehydration and weight loss. That might take longer, but it's something we can work on after your release as well. In the meantime, we're going to be working with Dr. Williamson to get a handle on the anxiety. She sent me her notes from your session, and she has a list of potential therapists; she'd like you to pick one to see on an outpatient basis. Do you have any questions about any of this?"

Flopped back against his pillows, Clint found it kind of hard to think of anything in particular. "No."

"I see you had a panic attack that was treated with chlordiazepoxide. Are you experiencing any side effects from the injection?"

_Aside from feeling stoned_? "No."

"Okay. Good. Why don't you get some rest? People will be in to check on you periodically; try to ignore them if you can. Get some sleep, and we'll see how you feel after that. Dr. Williamson should be in later this afternoon."

The doctor left.

Clint snorted softly to himself; he thought it was pretty unlikely he'd be getting any sleep. Since that was kind of where this whole debacle had started. Still, he felt...drowsy. And relaxed. And for once, lying in bed wasn't causing his heart rate to ratchet up. Actually, this wasn't so bad. He could get used to it.

_Woah. Bad fucking idea._

Sure, he'd used benzos before. He'd kept what he assumed was Valium with his other pills. It was the only way he'd been able to get any sleep at all for _months_. But now he was getting _really_ fucking close to clean, and Clint did _not _want to trade in an amphetamine habit for downers. Not now that mythical self-control was almost close enough to grasp.

He sat up, feeling a rush of dizziness. It passed fairly quickly, though, and he'd been about to stand up and move somewhere less comfortable (_those chairs look pretty brutal_) when Bruce showed up.

"Hey," the physicist greeted him awkwardly, lingering in the doorway. "Are you going somewhere?"

Clint appreciated how Bruce could accuse him of attempting escape while still managing to sound so casual. "Nope. Well, yeah. Could you give me a hand? I'm trying to get to those chairs..."

Bruce didn't question _why _Clint would want to sit in the hard, plastic visitor's chairs, just grabbed his good elbow and helped him up. Clint stumbled and Bruce caught him, before grabbing Clint's IV pole and tugging it across the room behind them.

"So. Um, how's it going?"

Clint sat down gingerly and settled back into the chair, resting his burned arm across his midsection. "Pretty good." He closed his eyes briefly before snapping them open again. Damn, the hard chairs weren't helping him stay awake _at all_. He let his gaze drift over to Bruce. "Why're _you _here?"

"Thought I'd check and see how you're doing," Bruce answered, craning his neck slightly to peer into Clint's face. "Are you okay?"

"...Sure. I'm fine," Clint answered a moment later, unaware that almost twenty seconds had passed since Bruce had asked his question.

Strangely, Bruce did not look reassured. "Are you sure?"

This time, at least, his answer was immediate, albeit annoyed. "Yeah." Then something occurred to him. "Hey, could you tell Nat? She's probably worried...and she shouldn't be. This is...good. A good idea."

A nurse came into the room, shooting Clint and Bruce a clearly disapproving look. "Agent Barton, you should be in bed. And I don't think you're cleared for visitors."

"I am," Clint protested. "...I think."

Bruce stood. "I need to get going anyway. The others seem to think I should be working on getting them out of containment."

Clint stood as well, and maneuvered himself back to his bed. "Sure."

With one more concerned look over his shoulder, Bruce slipped from the room.

The nurse handed Clint a small paper cup of water and a pill. "Here you go, Agent Barton. Can I get you anything else?"

Without even looking at her, he took the pill. He swallowed and then shook his head. "No, I'm fine." Even to his own ears, he didn't sound fine. He sounded...tense. And angry.

She left, grateful to be dismissed, leaving him alone.

Which was, as Clint discovered within ten minutes, not really the best plan.

He was tired and drowsy, but unwilling to sleep, so he turned the TV on. He couldn't focus on the program, though, and so he abandoned that plan pretty quickly. With nothing else to do, he was soon immersed in his own thoughts.

Clint reflected on the mission, on the man he'd shot, on the near-miss with Natasha. All in all, he agreed with Fury's assessment that he had no business continuing to work for SHIELD, at least until he got his shit together. Which, his mind was telling him, was probably going to be never. Because he was stupid, and weak, and if it wasn't drugs, it would be something else. That was the truth of it, it all related to his flawed constitution. His life was one long series of fuck ups, one right after another.

But Fury wasn't going to fire him, for whatever reason. At least, not yet. Clint figured, given enough time, he'd fuck up again, so badly that even the director of SHIELD couldn't save him.

_Just a matter of time, Barton_.

And how fucked up was it that he found that idea _comforting_?

He did his best to push those thoughts to the side, to push all of his thoughts to the side. Thinking was never a good idea, it just led him to the really dark corners of his mind that he needed to avoid.

At 3:30 PM, Dr. Williamson came by his room, to find Clint lying on his side, staring blankly out the window, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

He'd mostly failed at not thinking, had in fact thought long and hard about his situation. And now he was depressed, and angry, and entirely not in the mood for company.

"Agent Barton?" she prompted, taking in his haggard appearance, the bandaging on his arm, the fine sheen of sweat on his brow, the untouched lunch on the tray by his bed.

Clint sat up slowly. "Hi."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like shit." Which was honest. He was exhausted, and sore, and fucking ravenous. But he'd puked up the few bites of lunch he'd managed, and hadn't been brave enough to try again. Not given how much vomiting had increased the pain in his head.

"Well, let's see what we can do about that."

For the next hour, they talked. At least, Williamson talked. Clint tried to answer, tried to be helpful, but concentrating was too much work, and by the end of the hour, Clint was about ready to throw either her or himself out the window. "Are we done?"

She stood up from the chair she'd settled into. "For now. Look, Clint—can I call you that?" He nodded, tersely. "Clint. I know this isn't easy. And I know you're not feeling the best right now, but it'll get better. I promise. Even in just a few days, you'll start to feel better."

"Yeah? You know that?" He was practically snarling, he could feel it.

Williamson gave a firm nod. "Your body is trying to get a handle on what you've put it through. Once that's back to normal...well, the rest will get easier."

The platitudes were a little hard to bear. "Right."

"You don't believe me."

"No," he snapped, "I don't. What the fuck do you know about it?"

"I've done a lot of work with cases like yours—"

"What's that? With people who are too fucking pathetic to know that drugs are a fucking stupid choice? With people who can't, fuck, control themselves? People who just keep screwing up, over and over again?"

She gave him a level gaze. "I've done a lot of work with drug addicts, yes."

_Drug addict_.

And of course it wasn't the first time he'd heard the phrase, fuck, he applied it to himself all the time, plastered it across his forehead where he couldn't miss it whenever he looked at himself in the mirror. But, somehow, hearing the words from her, from this _stranger_, stopped him in his tracks and his anger evaporated. He slumped his shoulders. "I'm sorry, I just..."

"I know. It's hard. But we can fix this. You just have to try. Screw that. You just have to _want _to try."

Clint looked at his hands, folded in his lap. He shrugged, the closest thing to assent he could manage.

"Good. Look over the list of names I gave you; I included their specialties. I think the ones at the top of the list will be most helpful to you, and I've already contacted all of them to see if they'd be willing to take you on as a patient."

The idea of fucking _therapy _rubbed Clint entirely the wrong way, but he remembered what he'd thought earlier, about regaining his self-control by giving it up. "Fine."

Williamson gave him a smile that he did not see. "You've already done one of the hardest parts, Clint."

* * *

The Avengers busted out of biohazard contamination area A a bit before 7:00 PM, and it wasn't a minute too soon.

Natasha thought that if she'd had to listen to one more of Stark's stupid chemistry jokes, she was going eviscerate him. Barehanded.

"I'm going up to see Clint," she declared, once she'd joined the others outside the decontamination shower room.

"Good, let's go, " Tony said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

But Natasha shot him a glare that she quickly tried to tone down. "I, um. Appreciate your concern, Stark, but I think we should go easy on him. Don't want to overwhelm him with visitors."

Tony gave an easy laugh. "Yeah, I know you're sick of me. We'll all come by tomorrow. Give me a call, though, when you get a chance. Don't leave me hanging." He gestured to Steve and Thor. "Come on, guys, let's find Bruce and then get the fuck out of here. I want dinner. Steak. Expensive. The more ridiculously overpriced the better."

Steve shook his head. "I don't think so. I should get started on all the paperwork I have to do..." Sadly, the idea of doing paperwork seemed preferable to any more of Tony's horrible attempts at humor.

Thor also declined. "I apologize, Stark, but I must contact my father about last night's events immediately."

Tony shrugged. "Suit yourselves. Bruce'll let me take him on a date."

They made their way towards the elevator so they could go their separate ways.

Natasha took a moment to gather her thoughts before following after them. She rode up, then made her way to medical.

Visiting hours were over, but they were more than happy to let Natasha in to visit once she'd given her name. And maybe leveled the night nurse with her scariest glare. Maybe.

Clint was, predictably, not sleeping. He wasn't doing anything, really. The TV was on, and his face was pointed in its general direction, but it was evident that he wasn't paying attention. His only movement was the constant tapping of his toes against the foot of the bed.

"Clint," Natasha greeted him.

He turned his head towards her. "Nat."

"How are you?"

With a sigh, Clint pulled himself into a sitting position. "Tired. Sore. Embarrassed as fuck to be here." He reached a hand out towards her injured arm. "And sorry. I'm so sorry."

She shook him off. "That is _not_ your fault. Look, _I'm _sorry. I shouldn't have let Fury badger you into this—"

"It's okay," Clint interrupted her. "Really."

"No, it's not, I wasn't there for you—"

"Nat. I don't mind. I...did mind. But...I think this is good. I think I need to be here."

She gave him a sharp look. "Clint, you _don't_."

"No, hear me out. I can't...right now, I can't control myself. And it's my own fault. Not Loki's, _mine_. And...that sucks." He chuckled, but there was no real humor to it. "The withdrawal will be over in a few days. They say I'll be better, then. More...rational. More capable of 'coping.'" Clearly, this last bit irked him. "It's only for a few days."

Natasha could feel the doubtful expression on her face. She asked, "And was this really your choice? Or did Fury dangle your job over your head to make you jump? Your freedom?"

"Well..." he answered slowly. "There _was _a little jumping involved. But it's okay. Really. I might not have made the choice, but...it's the right choice."

He seemed certain, convinced, so she just took his hand in hers for a moment before saying, "If you're sure."

"I am."

* * *

Clint is in the hospital for one week.

During that time, he puts on almost five pounds, an anti-emetic taking care of the worst of his nausea and allowing him to pack away the food that his starving body needs. His blood pressure comes down, his heart rate decreases, and his cardiovascular health improves dramatically.

He has his first therapy session with his new psychologist on his second day of hospitalization, and though he feels that it's mostly a pointless waste of time, he doesn't throw a chair through the window even though he really wants to, and he doesn't punch a single person. Considering the fact that Stark still sports some light bruising around his eyes, that's a real improvement.

His first 'assignment' is to try and sleep without using any drugs (or restraints; his shrink put the kibosh on that idea as soon as he'd brought it up), so they talk about it, and Clint musters up the courage to recruit the entire team of Avengers to sit by his bed through the night. Even though they've all mostly seen him at his worst, now, and stuck by him, he can't help but be anxious about asking them to do something so personal.

His anxiety is baseless, because they all agree in a heartbeat. Frankly, they all look glad to be doing something helpful for him.

The way Clint figures it, if he's going to go fucking crazy in his sleep, a whole fucking team of superheroes should be able to take him down pretty quickly. And thoroughly.

That idea soothes him enough that he manages to sleep the whole night through. For the first time in who-knows-how-long.

It's an accomplishment that they celebrate.

By his last night in the hospital, he's down to just Nat by his bed.

Also during his week in the hospital, Clint begins taking the anti-anxiety medication that Dr. Williamson prescribed. Although he doesn't notice any massive changes, Williamson assures him that the changes _will _come as long as he takes the medication regularly.

Clint has another panic attack halfway through day four. He resolutely puts his foot down when the nurses try to give him a benzodiazepine. Clint and Dr. Williamson have a heated discussion about this, but eventually she comes to see things his way. "As long as you keep taking the sertraline."

And Clint is amenable to that.

On the day of his release, Clint is finally clean, completely free of the amphetamine, the withdrawal symptoms faded into something he doesn't even notice—except when he's stressed. But his doctors tell him that even that will fade, given enough time.

But all's not entirely well. Free from the drugs, Clint realizes how profoundly fucked up other parts of his life have gotten, how badly his self-image has been skewed, how bruised his ego has become. As all of this comes to light, Clint is tempted to run, to hide from it, to do anything to gird himself against this new reality.

Because _this _is the pain he had been trying to avoid all along, and facing it now...well, that might end up being the hardest thing he's done yet. He doesn't know if he can handle it.

But he's not alone, not anymore, and Clint thinks that, at least, counts for something.

**End**

* * *

**Probably excessive author's notes: **This has been...an adventure. This story has been, at times, almost insurmountably difficult for me to write. Suffice to say I've had my own issues with this sort of thing, and writing about it has been challenging. But the constant support and encouragement I've gotten from all of you has been a huge inspiration to me. Thanks to all of you for sticking around, and for giving me the motivation to keep going.

As always, irite deserves special mention, because I don't think you all appreciate what I put this poor woman through. Without her, this story wouldn't have happened—it probably would have been abandoned 50,000 words ago. So, thanks to my awesome beta buddy for putting up with my boundless insecurity, neurosis, and penchant for angst.

Next, a few words about the sequel: Um, there _is_ going to be a sequel. It's still in the planning stages, but you can probably expect the first chapter within a month at the most, probably less. I'll post a preview of the sequel here when it's ready, so everyone who's followed this story can find the sequel easily.

Finally, thanks for reading, as always, and please review! If nothing else, tell me your hopes and dreams for the sequel. I'm always open to suggestions...


	22. Haunted

Warnings: language.

First 900 or so words from Chapter 1 of "Haunted," the sequel to "Four Days," which'll be posted later today.

Thanks to my superstar beta, irite, for agreeing to sign on for yet _another_ multi-chapter story...like I gave her a choice.

I do not own The Avengers.

* * *

"Do you really think this is necessary?"

Natasha just rolled her eyes. They'd had this exact exchange every two weeks for the last three months. "Yes, I do. Now get your shit together so we can get this over with."

Clint gave an irritated huff. The twice-a-month doctor's appointments were, he thought, the most fucking annoying thing that had ever happened to him. Or maybe that was the twice-a-week therapy sessions. Which were better than the five-times-a-week therapy sessions had been (and thank God he'd graduated down, because that much therapy was driving him insane), but not by much. So those probably won for 'most fucking annoying thing ever.'

Still, the doctor's appointments were pretty high on the list. "I feel _fine_."

"Tell that to Styer."

That was Clint's doctor. Well, one of them. Clint had three, at the moment. Four, if you counted the nutritionist. Anyway, Styer wasn't a bad guy, but it was the _principle _of the thing. "Aren't doctors for sick people?"

"How're the headaches? Any panic attacks in the last two weeks? And you're still underweight."

Okay, he probably had that coming. Still, in Clint's opinion, kind of a low blow. "Awful, you already know that's a 'yes,' and hardly, Nat. Come on, gimme a break."

She wouldn't, though (and he depended on her not to, he _needed _her to be a hardass and she knew it) so, within the hour, he found himself on an exam table, trying not to flip out while Dr. Styer did his thing.

Which mostly, as far as Clint could tell, involved a lot of poking, prodding, and asking obvious questions.

"How're the headaches?"

Clint wished people would stop asking him that. "They're fine."

Styer leveled him with a look that clearly said, 'why do you even bother trying to lie to me.' If he didn't know better, Clint would swear the man was related to Fury. He tried again, "Okay, they're fucking miserable, I thought you said they'd get better—"

"I said if you tried to stay stress-free, they would. Have you been avoiding stress, staying calm?"

Well, truth be told, Clint hadn't been. His reinstatement meeting with Director Fury was approaching with a speed that seemed to defy the laws of time, and the prospect of that was pretty fucking stressful. Because even though the director had said that he wasn't going to fire Clint, that had been over three months ago. Almost four months ago, in fact. And four months was a long time to think. To reconsider. To make what Clint thought was a more rational choice. Because Clint didn't think that in Fury's position, he would keep himself on. And that fucking sucked to admit to himself.

Clint _had_ been making an effort at de-stressing, though. He knew how important it was to try and avoid stress. For one, it exacerbated the headaches that his amphetamine habit, even three months after he'd stopped using, had gifted him with. Second, it exacerbated his anxiety that, even over than six months after the fact, Loki had gifted him with. Third, it made the cravings worse, and that, probably, was the hardest one to deal with. Because, despite the fact that he'd stopped using over three months ago, the _need _was still there. He still wanted the drugs, his drugs. And he knew he couldn't have them, but 'mind over matter' wasn't quite seeming to work here.

So, Clint _was_ trying to avoid stress. _Really_. He'd picked up some meditation techniques from Banner (and good lord did that man have a lot of advice about staying calm), spent a lot of time at the range, the gym, and sometimes, when he'd had a particularly bad day, Tony would let him blow shit up in one of the ballistics labs. Quite often, the billionaire would join in—he pretended it was for research, but Clint wasn't fooled. Tony just liked explosions.

All of that had been pretty helpful, but as he got closer and closer to the meeting, the stress had been getting worse. Hence the upswing in headaches.

And in panic attacks. "Two in the last two weeks," Clint answered, when Styer asked about them. Clint saw the doctor make a note on his chart, and he knew that he'd be re-visiting the topic with his psychiatrist in a little while. To Clint, two panic attacks in two weeks didn't seem that bad—three months ago, he'd been having three or four a day, and _that _had been pretty hard to deal with. By comparison, two in two weeks was a fucking vacation. And neither of those had even involved vomiting, so that was an extra nice change.

Dr. Williamson, his psychiatrist, didn't feel the same way. "The ultimate goal," she'd said, quite often, "is that you don't have any attacks at all."

A nice goal, but it seemed pretty lofty.

After a few more tests, Styer sent Clint on to his next appointment, after reminding him, "Don't forget to schedule a follow-up for two weeks from now."

Like Clint could possibly forget.


End file.
